Cosmic Love
by plaguedbynargles
Summary: Soulmate AU. When the two consultants shake hands, it certainly puts a wrench in both of their plans for the rooftop encounter.
1. Prologue

"Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort."

The way the man in front of Sherlock said the words was so matter of fact, so noncommittal, that for a brief moment the detective wasn't sure he was speaking to a consulting criminal at all. The phrase and the logic behind it were so simple minded, so mundane, so _prosaic_. The words hit Sherlock in the gut, and he only had to wonder for a brief moment why they disturbed him more than anything else he'd heard in the past months.

Jim Moriarty didn't say things like that. Jim Moriarty was eloquent. He designed puzzles and crimes like an architect, building a structured web that no one, save for possibly Sherlock, could translate and understand. But _this_…this phrase was something the detective could have heard from anyone; a schoolmate or a stranger. It was anonymous, utterly _stupid_, and coming from James Moriarty, that made it all the more terrifying. The consulting criminal had murdered a child because he had _laughed_ at him, and now he was telling Sherlock to kill himself? The detective was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had overestimated Jim. And if so, how had he still managed to be so remarkably outwitted? Sherlock could feel himself coming apart at the seams; thoughts splitting and dividing like cancer cells as he tried to _think_, simply think, and calculate his next move.

"Go on. For me."

There had to be something. _Something_ that he had overlooked. Was he simply overthinking? Had Sherlock come full circle—thoughts scrambled enough from excess of knowledge that he was, in reality, of average intellect? Jim was waiting, watching his every panicked move with what the detective could only imagine was deep satisfaction, and Sherlock could feel the pressure pushing down on him, heavier and heavier until he had to gasp for breath.

"Pleeeeeeasseeeee?"

That did it. The detective, on a basic, primal impulse, did the only thing he could think of as a plausible option at the moment. Sherlock grabbed the criminal by the collar and swung him out over the roof's edge, giving him a semi satisfying shake. As long as they were behaving like children, the detective supposed, this was perfectly appropriate behavior. He only felt more frustration, however, as Jim stared up at him glassily with an infuriatingly convincing bored expression.

"You're insane," Sherlock panted. There were many insufferable people in the world, he supposed. In his life he had always been surrounded by stupidity, ignorance, and general ineptitude. It had always vexed him, and there had been times he'd wished—no, he'd borderline _prayed_, for someone, _anyone_, who was different. Now that he had it in front of him, in the form of this twisted, alien mind that was Jim Moriarty, he understood a bit why people tended towards normalcy. He'd known he was different, but _this_…this was madness personified.

"You're just getting that now?"

The detective couldn't risk another, harder shake; this was quickly becoming too much. He could feel himself getting _angry_ at Jim, and could barely enjoy the criminal's startled exclamation and scrambling hands through his disgust. It was almost a moment of humanity, seeing the man startled; off guard and panicked. Only further proof to Sherlock that Jim was ordinary—he wore a mask of algorithms and complex crimes but when it came down to it, it was all for destruction. He didn't possess _true_ intellect; only what he needed to further his own agenda.

The detective's blood went cold for a moment as he wondered if, perhaps, Jim saw him the exact same way.

"Okay," Jim looked almost offended as he glared up at the man holding him, "Let me give you a little extra incentive." Sherlock felt like he was in a play as he listened to the criminal talk. This was a script, only one actor had come to the final performance unprepared. "Your friends will _die_ if you don't."

Briefly, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. This was such a cliché that he felt almost disappointed in the criminal. This sealed it. Jim was ordinary. He was a common lunatic and Sherlock had been a fool, a desperate fool, to think he'd actually found an adversary worth acknowledging. All he'd done by playing Jim's games was ensure a fate for himself that, if he'd stayed isolated, would never have emerged. The detective's anger was quickly turning into a wave of crushing, familiar depression. _This monster is actually going to beat me._

"John…"

"Not just John," Jim clarified, ever the storyteller, "Everyone."

"Mrs. Hudson-"

"_Everyone_."

"Lestrade."

"Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims," Jim breathed, "There's no _stopping_ them now."

He was excited. Sherlock could see that. At least, when he'd started the speech it had looked that way. Now the criminal's eyes looked strangely empty; like he'd wanted to see a different reaction from his favorite toy. The detective wasn't sure what Jim had been expecting to see on the face of a man who was about to sentence either himself or his friends to death.

_He played me like a fiddle._

Now, Sherlock thought, Jim really _did_ look disappointed. His dark eyes searched the detective's face for something, and for a blink, the criminal looked more forlorn than Sherlock would have ever thought possible. He seemed oddly heavy, suddenly, and when the detective pulled his adversary away from the edge, he felt hot breath on his face.

"Unless my people see you jump."

The criminal tugged his suit down curtly, and continued to watch Sherlock, whose mind had suddenly gone mysteriously quiet. Jim was breathing heavily, and from the corner of his eye the detective could see a grin of triumph slowly fade, in what once again looked almost like disappointment.

"You can have me arrested," the criminal continued his onslaught, "You can torture me. You can do anything you like with me, but nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die. _Unless-_"

"I kill myself. Complete your story." Sherlock finished. _I get the point_, the detective wanted to say, _I understand it, just shut up, please. I know you're winning._

Jim nodded, looking proud of himself and invading Sherlock's space again, "You've gotta admit that's sexier." The detective could smell aftershave, the two were so close.

"And I die in disgrace," Sherlock clarified, defeated.

"Well, of course. That's the point of this," the criminal said matter of factly, as though they were discussing something other than suicide. The detective ignored Jim's gaze on him, despite its ever present weight. Ever since he had walked out onto the rooftop, it was as though he carried two massive rocks on his shoulders, black like the criminal's eyes. "Oh. You've got an audience now," he continued casually, "Off you pop. Go on."

It was so disappointing, Sherlock thought, that all their games were ending in such an unspectacular way. That it all was ending like this. So many cases were unsolved. There were so many things he had never said to John. Even his rivalry with Mycroft seemed trivial, now.

"I told ya how this ends!" Jim continued taunting as he stepped out on the ledge, "Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it."

"Would you give me one moment, please? One moment of privacy?" Sherlock asked, swallowing his pride, "Please?"

There was a short pause, and he could perfectly picture Jim's smirk, without needing to look behind him, "Of course."

As the detective's eyes searched London's skyline, he marveled at the criminal's babbling. It was like he was high off of his own success; so pleased with himself that he was actually repeating things. Though Sherlock supposed Jim wasn't exactly the criminal mind he'd once thought, so this wasn't so surprising.

Unless he _was_, and simply had a weakness for bragging.

Sherlock grinned, feeling hysterical laughter bubbling up inside of him. Jim was revealing the flaw in his plan and he didn't even realize it. Though that was the problem with genius, he supposed. It needed an audience and where there was fame, it was all too easy to get cocky, and careless.

"What?" the criminal exclaimed, incredulous. To the detective's satisfaction, he sounded slightly concerned. "What is it?" Sherlock turned around and gave him the biggest, smuggest grin he could muster. "What did I miss?" Jim shouted, volume increasing.

With a hop, the detective removed himself from the ledge and took a step towards his adversary, "You're not going to do it?" he repeated, strutting towards the disbelieving criminal, who stood there and blinked, "So the killers can be called off then. There's a recall code, or a word, or a number," Sherlock started circling him, and Jim remained silent, clearly uncomfortable, "I don't have to die if _I've got you_." He sing songed the last part, giving his opponent what he hoped was a taste of his own bitter medicine.

"Oh," Jim laughed cruelly, "You think you can _make me_ stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered simply, an eerie idea developing within his mind, "So do you."

"Sherlock," the criminal started condescendingly, "Your big brother and all the king's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?" the detective breathed, now face to face with his enemy once more, "I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to _burn._ Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in Hell? I shall not disappoint you."

Jim paused, and Sherlock knew he had caught the criminal. Jim wanted a perfect adversary, but that was also the one thing preventing him from completing his plan. By telling him what he wanted to hear, Sherlock was ensuring that he remained 'not ordinary', and therefore worth keeping alive. The detective had spent the discussion marveling at how ordinary his opponent truly was—perhaps the criminal had intended that. Perhaps he had been _trying_ to distance himself, to convince himself that boredom was truly an unavoidable thing, that he was alone. Now _why_ he would want such a thing was beyond Sherlock—

"_Just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort._"

Hm. Did Jim have a death wish? Was Sherlock the last thing tethering him to life? Was it possible for someone as egocentric as Jim to _feel_ something like the call of the void? The detective was no psychologist, but until this point, he hadn't assumed that the criminal was capable of feeling anything. If he felt some sort of…connection with his favorite toy that made life worth living to him, then a suicidal man would try to distance himself from that connection—in their case, convincing himself that Sherlock was nothing special.

Slowly, doubtfully, Jim shook his head, "Nah…you talk big…nah...You're ordinary. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels."

_There it is_, Sherlock thought smugly.

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels," the detective said, "but don't think for one _second_ that I am one of them."

The words were delivered like lines from a play, and Sherlock could tell from the change in the criminal's facial expression that they had hit their mark dead on. Slowly, as though he was seeing his nemesis for the first time, Jim searched the detective's face, mouth falling open slightly as he realized exactly what he wanted to.

"…No," he said quietly, "You're not," slowly his lips twisted into a smirk, and the criminal nodded slightly, still gazing up at Sherlock like he was a hero, "I see. You're not ordinary…no. You're me…" almost unconsciously, he leaned towards the stony faced detective, a hysterical wheeze of laughter escaping him as he examined this suddenly far more interesting toy, "You're _me_," Jim repeated gleefully, "Thank you!"

Sherlock fought to keep his eyes fixed on Jim's as the criminal brought a hand to his shoulder, barely enough so that the detective could feel him through the thick wool of his coat, and, after looking at it in confusion a moment, brought it back to his side.

That was…strange.

"Sherlock Holmes," Jim whispered, holding out a hand, still watching the detective as if he couldn't believe his eyes. Sherlock considered not completing the gesture—the criminal had proved that he wasn't above playing dirty, so who was to say he wouldn't try to pull something?

However, after a moment of indecision, he decided to give into the curiosity that was suddenly crackling inside of him. Slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock extended his hand to meet Jim's. The detective took a brief moment more to hesitate, with their hands mere centimeters apart, before he finally clasped them together.

For a few seconds, there was nothing. In fact, the gesture was so simple, so finite, so _mundane_ that Sherlock felt, in spite of himself, a tiny twinge of disappointment; even Moriarty shook hands, just like anyone else did. Jim's palms were cold; even more so than his own, in fact. The detective didn't have time to think of anything else before it hit him.

Washing over him like a wave, the pressure was instant and more extreme than anything he'd ever felt before. His skull felt like it was being caved in from all sides, it felt like he was being electrocuted and kicked in the stomach and set on fire all at once. Sherlock _couldn't breathe._

With a useless gasp, the detective dropped Jim's hand like it was a hand grenade, stumbling back a few feet and still struggling to draw in a breath that satisfied his lungs. He should have known. He should have _known_ that the criminal would pull something! Sherlock's skin was crawling and prickling and _warm_ like someone was sticking him with thousands of needles, and the hand that had touched Jim's felt like it had been submerged in boiling water.

_Drugged. Injection probably._ _Get away from him, gain the upper hand before he makes his move; before you're too sedated to fight!_

Clumsily, the detective blinked his quickly blurring eyes, and foolishly tried to shake his head to clear it. Sherlock was lucky he hadn't eaten anything that day, because he was unable to stop himself from dry heaving a few times before he was able to somewhat get his bearings again.

Dizzy, suddenly exhausted, and with breath coming in short gasps, the detective fell to his knees. One shaking arm holding his body up, and one pressed against his throbbing head, Sherlock summoned all of his willpower to force himself to look up. If he was going to die, he was going to fight until the end.

The only bit of comfort the detective experienced before he blacked out came from a simple observation, and that was Jim Moriarty lying sprawled on the pavement, unmoving, a few feet in front of him.


	2. Falling Stars

Sherlock groaned, blinking blearily as he regained consciousness. The first thing he noticed was the pain. For a brief moment, there was nothing, making the detective wonder if he'd imagined how poorly he'd felt after the handshake. But then, like surfacing from underwater, it all came rushing back. His skull throbbed and it felt like something was taking his brain and _twisting _it, as impossible as that was. Sherlock was used to injuries, but this pain was like something he'd never experienced before. It was all consuming; although he knew the ache originated in his cranium he found it hard to imagine any of his body was at all functioning properly. The only thing that kept him from passing out again was the burning, uncomfortable, prickling sensation in his right palm—the one he'd so foolishly touched to Jim's. For some reason, this was the pain that helped him stay alert, perhaps because it was so different from the rest. Sherlock squinted at the brightness of the sky, and it made his head throb.

_"You're me."_

Jim Moriarty's last, haunting words echoed through the detective's mind as memories of his previous situation started to come back to him. He'd met his nemesis on a rooftop, considered jumping to his death to save his friends, passed out after shaking hands with the criminal mastermind…

Alarm shot through Sherlock's veins like a drug, and his head snapped over to where Jim had fallen. There was no one there. Had he imagined it? If Moriarty wasn't here, then where was he? And what did that mean for John…?

_John. Shit._

The confused detective stumbled to his feet, and barely caught himself before tumbling to the ground again. His _head_. Sherlock had had headaches before, including migraines, but this was something else entirely. Coupled with the dizziness, nausea, and mysterious sense of anger that also plagued him, it was clear that there was something very, very wrong with him. He closed his eyes, leaning up against the structure he had originally caught himself on, and tried to get his bearings. He didn't have time to vomit; Sherlock needed to get to John. Or find Jim. Whichever came first.

The headache, dizziness, and nausea suggested a concussion. It was possible, the detective supposed, that he had hit his head on the concrete when he'd fallen. That was enough to do it, but he didn't remember falling that hard. His head had suffered far worse, and nothing had happened then. No, this was probably poison of some sort. He didn't have time or the energy to consider what type it might be. It would certainly explain the burning in his hand. Hopefully it wasn't something that attacked the nervous system, though the tingling didn't do anything to ease _that_ worry. But what purpose would that serve Jim? He'd seemed to have borderline scripted the rooftop encounter so that Sherlock would jump—so why poison him? Of course, Jim had also ended up on the pavement, so that could rule out poison…unless there was something he was missing. There was always _something._

The detective shook his head. John would know what was wrong. He'd set this straight.

_"Friends protect people_."

Sherlock was disgusted with himself for being such a prick to John, earlier. That could have been their last conversation, and it would have included the doctor calling him a 'machine'. The fact depressed him.

Another, more violent, pang of anger, no, _fury_, snapped Sherlock out of his musing. How _dare_ John call him a machine? John was the ordinary one. He was _glad_ he hadn't jumped to save the doctor. John didn't _deserve_ to-

_What?_

The detective shook himself mentally. Was he having a mood swing? His emotions surely couldn't be _this_ out of control. He wondered if that hinted towards concussion, as well. He sorely wished John was here to offer a diagnosis. He'd had no _reason_ to feel so angry. Just a minute ago he'd been melancholy and now he felt…panic. Again, it could be poison, but Sherlock was too scramble brained to think about what kinds of poisons might cause mood swings.

Suddenly, the detective's breath hitched, forcing him to gasp for air like a fish out of water. Piercing through him like a thousand shards of glass was cold, unrestrained fear. There was something wrong; Sherlock wasn't feeling this way. Well, he _was_, but _wasn't_ at the same time. His head _hurt_… _God_, it felt like it was getting worse…

The detective raised a palm to press against his throbbing cranium, and froze.

If he'd been alarmed before, he was now what could only be described as terror stricken. Sherlock's palm shook as he held it in front of him, mouth falling open as he _prayed_ he wasn't looking at what he thought he was. _Surely_ not…

There, right in the center of his right palm, was a mark. It was simple, yet intricate, and shone like melted silver on his pale skin, glinting in the sunlight. The only shape Sherlock could hope to reasonably compare it to was a crop circle—albeit one of the more complicated ones. Hadn't John showed him an article about that sometime? It extended out across his hand until just reaching where his fingers started, making it look like a strange, geometric spider web.

It…looked like a Mark.

Throughout his life, the detective had watched as other people found their Soulmates. Most never found them, and made due with Unmarked relationships, but, especially when he'd aged past 20, it had seemed as though everyone around him had found their Soulmate. Though, he supposed that could have been simply because those who _did_ find their Mates were especially loud about it. Dimly, Sherlock remembered hearing that only 20% of people found their true Soulmates _and_ stayed with them. Many who weren't ready to commit arranged to illegally break the bond, some murdered their Mates for an escape, and some committed suicide. It wasn't unheard of for some poor soul to accidentally bond with a lunatic or a sadist, and be unable to cope with their new shared madness.

Sherlock looked to the ledge in front of him, and wondered if he would fit with any of those groups.

Assuming he'd never find a Mate had become normal to the detective. Mycroft still didn't have his, and neither did, Sherlock realized, most of the other people he knew. Mrs. Hudson was the only person he could think of who had ever Bonded, and she was luckily out of that, now. The landlady had been lucky enough to have a weak Bond; not so risky to break as a strong one. There had been a time he'd thought John would be his Mate, but that had long passed. Sherlock had tried not to think about it—he knew the odds of a successful Bond were one in…well, several billion, but the doctor had been the only person he'd ever _desired_ a Bond with. Sally Donovan and Anderson, despite being Unbonded themselves, still were eager to remind him of his lonesomeness every chance they got.

And _now_…now what? Sherlock had deleted most of the other information on the subject. Even in high school, when they'd gotten the mandatory 'talk' about it within the course of a 45 minute class period, he hadn't thought it would be relevant or important to his life. Were these symptoms he had side effects of being Bonded? If so, he hoped they would go away soon, or else he couldn't imagine how someone would live their entire life with them.

No, he shouldn't say that. This would not last a lifetime. Moriarty was a criminal mastermind. Not the sort who Bonded, romantically or platonically. He was a psychopath, for God's sake! But there _were_ incidents reported where people like that found Mates... Or perhaps this was all just a ploy to get him to jump. Perhaps Jim thought the mere premise of being his Mate would be enough to make him kill himself. All he had to do was drug Sherlock and trace a design on his palm. Not overwhelmingly difficult. The detective rubbed his thumb against the Mark, testing this theory, but quickly abandoned the task. He could figure out exactly what was wrong with him later; what was important now was whether or not Jim had called his snipers off.

Hands still trembling slightly, Sherlock gritted his teeth as he touched John's name in his contacts, fighting to ignore how close he was to passing out again. The doctor mercifully answered after only one ring.

_"Hey, I'm just headed-"_

"John, listen closely," the detective cut his friend off impatiently, "I need you to get inside, and get away from any windows. Call Mycroft and-"

_"Wait, what? Sherlock, are you okay?"_

"Moriarty has gunmen on you and…." Sherlock had to pause to get his bearings, "…and he's got them on Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, as well."

_"What? Sherlock, what happened? Where are you-?"_

"I'm on the top of Bart's Hospital. I don't know where Moriarty went, and I'm not sure how likely it is that they'll shoot. So just take Mrs. Hudson with you and get somewhere safe. I'll call Lestrade and…_shit!"_ The detective hissed as a fresh wave of pain, stinging and white hot, roiled through his Marked hand.

_ "Why the Hell-? Are you alright-? That's it, I'm coming up there."_

"NO! John, listen to me. He will kill you. These are trained snipers and they will shoot you without a second thought. Get to safety."

_"Sherlock…_" John's voice sounded pained, and it was all the detective could do not to give in.

"Just do it. I'll be back soon."

Before the doctor could object, Sherlock hung up, suddenly feeling anxious. Whether this was another mood swing or just a reaction to his current situation, he wasn't sure. He'd initially considered going after Moriarty, but it was clear that, in his current state, that wasn't a good idea.

A thought popped into the detective's head, increasing his nausea and making him gag a few times. Despite this, he decided to act on it, praying to every deity he knew didn't exist that he was, just this once, incorrect.

_7:26_, the clock on his phone read.

Sherlock did some quick mental math. His last text with Jim before the rooftop had been at around 7. If that allowed for the time taken to get to the rooftop, plus the time they'd spent talking, that meant he'd been unconscious for about three minutes.

Even assuming Moriarty had faked his apparent black out, how on Earth would he have time to draw or otherwise place the symbol on Sherlock, with no errors or imperfections, and still have time to make a getaway?

It was…highly illogical. But he didn't have time to think about this. Sherlock had to find John, and he had to phone Lestrade.

The detective gingerly took a deep breath, fighting down the nausea that gripped him as he did so, and willed himself to walk. He made sure to hold his phone in the hand that had the 'Mark'. Whether it was real or not, he didn't need people stopping him in the hospital to ask if his Mate was alright. If a Bond was too strong, breaking it could be lethal for both partners, so if he waltzed straight through the hospital looking sick as a dog…well, it would be a nuisance, to say the very least, even if the Mark was fake.

_Somehow_ Sherlock managed to get himself to the street, nicking some bandages from a hospital cart on his way out. The detective hailed a cab, and barely managed to spit out a tired "221B Baker Street" at the cabbie before passing out again.

(o0o0o0o0)

"Oi! I said, you alright?" a concerned voice was the first thing Sherlock heard when he came to. Mercifully, his head didn't hurt _quite _so badly this time, though it still felt worse than most headaches he'd ever had before. The pain on his Marked hand had receded a bit as well, so that now it felt like his palm had gotten a bad sunburn, rather than actually being on fire.

Good. Progress.

"Fine," the detective snapped at the driver, taking out his phone and pressing Lestrade's name.

_"…Sherlock?"_ an apprehensive Gavin answered him.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock said impatiently, "There's not time to talk about whether you can trust me or not. You've got snipers on you so get somewhere where they won't be able to target you-"

_"What the bloody Hell are you going on abou-?"_

"You've got snipers on you! Get somewhere safe!" the detective glared at the cabbie, who had glanced over his shoulder nervously at the word 'snipers'.

_"…Tell me you're joking. Sherlock, this is mental…where are you?"_

"I'll call you when it's clear," he snapped, not bothering to address Garrett's babbling. Another thing done; now he needed to check his hand.

First, Sherlock brought his palm to his nose, taking a quick sniff. He still felt out of it, but that shouldn't have prevented him from smelling any trace of ink. Shaking his head, he moved to the next theory. Perhaps Jim had used something non scented. Though if it was non scented, likely it wasn't going to rub off just with his hands and saliva. He'd have to wait until he got back to 221B to examine it further. If it _was_ a Mark, he'd need to contact the network to hook him up with a doctor as soon as possible. The detective didn't know much about Soulmates and the Bonding process, but he had a hunch that the sooner the bond was severed, the better.

That is, if it was there in the first place. He would have to google symptoms of being Bonded when he got back. That should clear it up.

A wave of revulsion washed over Sherlock, and it took all of his willpower to keep from dry heaving. So much for feeling better. Already, he could feel the pressure in his head increasing and his Mark heating up, burning and tingling like it was being stabbed with a thousand needles. He gritted his teeth against the unpleasant sensation, starting to wrap the stolen bandages around his Marked hand. Just a precaution, of course. It wouldn't do to have John panic and start fawning over him while he tried to assess the situation. The best thing to do was to just get home, lie down, and do a quick few tests. Then he could worry about Moriarty.

Everything was fine. Sherlock was in control.

**A/N: Miss me? I'm sorry about the wait, but I'd like you to know that this fic is definitely #not dead. Don't worry friends. As soon as I finish writing Black Ice updates will become much more frequent! Leave me your thoughts?**


	3. Orbit

The second a spark of consciousness lit inside Jim's mind, it ignited him into action. He was suddenly wide awake; every nerve in his body active and ready to respond at the slightest possibility of a threat. The criminal was already on his feet before he saw that Holmes was lying on the ground in front of him, seemingly dead to the world. All of this happened in the course of a few seconds, before the pain hit, making Moriarty bite his lip to keep from making a sound.

God, his fucking head hurt. Not to mention his hand. What the _Hell_ was Sherlock playing at? Jim hadn't seen a syringe, so that eliminated the possibility of poison injection, but then why did his hand hurt so badly? His palm burned and tingled in a strange but painful combination of what felt like sunburn and pins and needles.

Actually…there was one explanation that made sense.

Slowly, Moriarty lifted his right palm, spreading his fingers. They stood out starkly against the backdrop of London, but what really captured Jim's full, undivided attention, was the silvery Mark that seemed to have twisted and curled its way from the center of his palm, extending all the way to the bases of his fingers.

The criminal felt a sudden urge to vomit. _No_, this wasn't happening. This _wasn't how it was supposed to be_. Sherlock was supposed to die. _Jim_ was supposed to die. But now if Jim shot himself, Sherlock could die while unconscious. Oh, no, that wouldn't do. It had to be done _properly_. Jim wanted to see Sherlock awake, in front of him when he died. He'd been so _close_. So _close_ to escaping this godforsaken Earth, and now the whole damn plan was ruined. Because now he couldn't die shaking hands with Sherlock. Now Moriarty would never get that chance again. Because now, he and Sherlock Holmes were _Mated_.

This was wrong. This was all wrong. Jim wanted to scream and cry and take a knife to this fucking Mark and _cut it out_ of him. He needed it _off_. This was weakness. This wasn't how he'd wanted to know Sherlock Holmes. Holmes was a threat. A beautiful, perfect threat. And Jim needed to maintain that relationship. Not one where they would want to be around each other constantly. Not one where he'd have to _talk_ and _comfort_ and do pathetic _ordinary_ things with the detective. That wasn't how this worked. _God_, Jim was so _sickened_.

Maybe…maybe he could sever the Bond. It had been what? A minute? He'd only been out for 30 seconds at the very most. Jim was no expert on the medical aspect of Soulmates but perhaps, given how recently the connection had developed, it could be worn down and eventually broken. Usually, new Soulmates had to stay ridiculously close for the first 24 hours or so after their Bond first developed, to allow it to mature and form correctly. But if Jim ran, if he avoided Holmes, the Bond would never have a _chance_ to mature. Maybe it would eventually become frail from the lack of contact, and break. It was all a matter of waiting, but if there was one thing Moriarty was good at, it was that. He would bide his time and start planning a new game; a new way out for both himself and Sherlock. But right now, that had to be put aside.

Sherlock would likely be waking up at any moment, which meant Jim had to _get out_ of there, and fast. Without another moment's hesitation, the criminal started towards the door to get onto the rooftop, taking his phone out of sleep mode as he did so. He'd send a text to Jo, tell her everything was off. No sense causing a fuss for no real reason.

Jim winced as he made his way down the ground floor of the hospital. _God_, it felt like his headache was getting worse. He actually felt a little bit nauseous, now that he thought about it. No matter. He'd had far worse. Far, far worse.

_Everything is off. –JM_

Approximately half a second later, a reply came.

_Alright, Boss. –JA _

Alright. That was taken care of. Jim didn't doubt that she'd tell the others about it—such things were a part of being the mastermind's second in command. Now he just had to get out of here and…_fuck_.

Suddenly, the pressure on Jim's head seemed to increase tenfold. The criminal wheezed at the sudden pain, and he was thankful this hallway was empty at the moment. There were only two more he needed to walk down before he was out. He could handle this. He could handle…

Moriarty mentally cursed again as another wave of pain hit him. He had to swallow the bile that rose in his throat and bite his lip hard enough that he tasted iron to keep himself from showing how much it affected him. Was Sherlock waking up? Was that why he kept feeling worse? If so, he was running out of time quickly. Otherwise, if this was just the bond breaking…well, at least it was breaking.

Jim wiggled the fingers on his right hand, trying to ignore the fact that, as his headache got worse, the burning of his Mark was also getting more intense. It was difficult to bear, but Moriarty could see the door he was looking for, which would lead him out the back of the hospital. He could step into an alley and get to one of his more remote flats, wait out the breaking of the bond. If worse came to worst he could always arrange to have it broken illegally, though that would be a last resort. The idea of having his mind in the hands of an ordinary person was…unnerving.

Finally, the criminal reached the door, slipping out into the crisp morning air and promptly into an alleyway. He had hoped that the cold air might help his headache or the burning in his hand, but no such luck. Instead of disappointment, however, Jim felt…alarmed. His heartbeat hammered so that he could hear it in his ears, even above the noises of morning city traffic. Moriarty was so confused…he couldn't think…everything was so disorienting.

What was happening to him?

Shaking his head, the criminal decided it was better, in his current state, to catch a ride with Jo than to drive himself home. He leaned against a wall, the dizziness that was starting to cloud his vision and weaken his legs winning out over his love of Westwood.

_Require assistance. B81. –JM_

Moriarty watched the screen for 5, 10, 30 seconds, growing two parts panicked and irritated for each one that passed. Where the fuck was Jo? Did she think that because the job was off that she didn't need to bother watching for texts? Anger flared up in Jim's chest as he waited another 15 seconds. _This _was how his second in command acted? Was this a fucking sabotage?

The criminal winced as the pain in his head intensified once more. It felt like someone was taking his brain and _stretching_ it. He bit his lip, suddenly afraid. He needed to get out of here. Jim was weak; exposed. This was dangerous.

But if Jo wasn't answering, who was to say his other two favorites would? He'd trusted Jo to tell them the operation was off, and if he couldn't trust Jo now, he certainly couldn't trust anyone that'd been fed information by him. If he texted them, then all three gunmen would know he was vulnerable. And that simply wouldn't do. No, Jim was much better off getting help from one of the new recruits. One that had the tales of all Moriarty had done fresh in his mind. They would be less likely to cross him.

On a whim, the criminal hit Sebastian Moran's name. Hastily, and fighting to stay conscious through the throbbing pain in his head, he typed out a message and hit send before slumping back against the wall.

_Require assistance. B81. –JM_

(o0o0o0o0)

Sebastian's head snapped over to where his phone lay, heart thumping loudly. He forced himself to take a breath. It wouldn't do to be nervous for his first real job with Moriarty.

A few years ago, Sebastian had received a Dishonorable Discharge from the United States military. It didn't matter that he hadn't been the one to start the drunken brawl—all that mattered was that his opponent had ended up dead at his feet, bleeding out onto the dirt floor as Sebastian passed out into an unknown soldier's hands.

It had been the worst night of his life. Sebastian had regretted it every single day since it happened and yet, there was absolutely nothing he could do to take it back. The douche had had it coming, but the courts didn't care about that. All they knew was that one man had ended up with a knife in his stomach, and Sebastian had been the one to put it there. So he was discharged. It didn't matter that they'd all been shocked at how young he'd completed training, or how much he'd exceeded expectations until that point. It didn't matter that sniping was the only thing that _really_ came naturally to him. They'd kicked him out; a 19 year old with no high school degree, no other experience, nothing but the clothes on his back.

What was a man to do, in that situation? Sebastian had spent two months homeless, in the sweltering heat of summer, swatting mosquitos away from his arms as he tried to sleep and daydreaming about a time when things had been simpler. At home with Mom and Dad, before he'd learned that it wasn't normal for your parents to make you feel like you were worthless, like nothing about you was good enough, and then say they love you a few minutes later. He'd left his air conditioned, suburban home at 18 and never looked back. Well, until he was discharged. That changed everything.

Jobs were a thing of daydreams for Sebastian during that time. How much would he have loved to snag a part time shift at McDonald's, or Home Depot, or even a Barnes and Noble. But it just so happened that most places weren't interested in hiring ex army snipers that only showered twice a week and didn't have the money to buy a suit for an interview.

Most places.

One night, as Sebastian lay awake, swatting at bugs as usual, he'd overheard a whispered conversation. The sort of thing that, before the army, would have made his hair stand on end. Now, it just gave him something to focus on other than the rumbling in his stomach.

_"I told you! 30 bucks a gram, no less."_

_ "Man, no one's got the shit to pay for that!"_

_ "Then no one's getting any crack tonight!"_

_ "Fuck off, I need this."_

_ "If you needed it, you'd have the fucking money to pay for it."_

_ "But-"_

Sebastian heard a very familiar sounding click.

_"Woah woah woah, I don't want no trouble…"_

_ "Any other night I'd just wait for you to leave,"_ the dealer said, _"But tonight, I can't deal with your shit. Back the fuck off."_

_ "Are you still gonna deal or-?"_

A shot rang out, and Sebastian heard someone running. He'd just begun to wonder what would make a dealer chase away their customers until he heard a voice, shockingly close to where he lie.

_"That was embarrassing to watch."_

Sebastian heard the dealer turn to face the newcomer, _"Sorry you had to see that."_

_ "No problem. I needed a laugh. Still can't find any new recruits for you know who."_

_ "Damn, I'm sorry, man."_

_ "Yeah, according to Danny I'm definitely gonna be sorry if I can't get any soon. You got my money?"_

_ "Yeah…"_

There was some rustling. They had a _lot_ of dough. No wonder the dealer had been nervous.

_"Thanks man. You know the drill."_

_ "Haha. Of course I do."_

_ "This guy sleeping or what?"_

Sebastian's heartbeat spiked. He heard footsteps coming closer to where he lie, and had to fight to keep his eyes shut. If he was 'sleeping', maybe they would leave him alone.

He mentally uttered a long string of profanities when a shoe kicked his side. Unconsciously, he held his breath, waiting for his fate to be decided.

_"I say shoot him. Who's gonna miss him?"_

_ "Yeah, who knows how much the cops are paying these days to any bum who'll-"_

Sebastian heard the click of a gun again, and shot upright, making his inspector jump back about a foot.

"Shit!" the man cursed loudly, quickly regaining his bearings to narrow his eyes at the ex army sniper, who, still on his knees, had his hands up above his head. Sebastian took in the scene in front of him. The dealer, who stood a few feet away, wide eyed, didn't look older than 15. Though admittedly there was a glint in his blue eyes that made him seem at least a little bit formidable. His hair was blond, standing out against tan skin that made him look like a stereotypical California surfer. The other man, the one who had taken the money, was still pointing a gun at Sebastian. His dark skinned hands were steady, the former sniper noted with disappointment, and he appeared tall enough that, if both of them stood up, he'd still have a few inches on Sebastian. Damn. The kid would have been probably easy to disarm and take out, but now that the two of them were in the equation…Sebastian didn't think if this came to a fight that it would go his way.

"How much did you hear?" the black asked smoothly.

Sebastian kept his voice steady, "Enough to know you're recruiting."

"Oh," he grinned, clearly amused, "That so? Lemme tell you, friend, this is probably not your sort of job."

"I'm an ex army sniper," Moran blurted out.

The gun was lowered, "What's your name, sniper?"

Sebastian hesitated, not sure whether or not to use his real name. He supposed Moran wasn't such an uncommon name. And it wasn't like he cared about whether or not he brought shame onto his parents.

"Sebastian. Sebastian Moran, sir."

"Hear that, Taylor?" the black turned to face the young dealer, "This one calls me sir. A common bum's got better manners than you."

The blond only glared at Sebastian in response, as though having manners was _his_ fault.

"Tell me, Sebastian," he turned back to the former sniper, "You a man of the law?"

Moran hesitated again, "I," he said slowly, "am a man who will obey the highest bidder."

"That's what I like to hear."

Sebastian's first hit had taken place a week later, and that had been the start of his decent into crime. Or, should he say ascent. He was definitely living more comfortably than when he'd had no home at all. Carefully, he'd made his way up through the ranks, and eventually had determined that the center of crime was currently living in London. London, of all places! However strange it had sounded at the time, Sebastian had saved his money and moved across the Atlantic as soon as he could. He had already been high on the ladder at this time—certainly not near the top, but close enough that he noticed he stopped seeing his boss's faces so often. Eventually, he'd stopped seeing them completely, and had started to hear whispers about Moriarty.

His names were many. To some he was just 'M', to others he was 'The Magpie', to some he was 'The King', and, finally, to the lower ranking, he was just 'You Know Who'. According to some, he had bombs planted in every major government building on Earth. Others said that he lived in a mansion in the countryside, with a personal staff of over 200 slaves. A few went far enough to say that if you paid him enough, he'd hook you up with your own nuclear warheads. Moran thought this was all rubbish. If there was one thing Sebastian had learned while working his way through the criminal empire, it was that fear was used to keep people from moving up. He took no head of these rumors, and perhaps that was how, eventually, three months ago, he'd found a letter shoved under his door, offering a position.

Sebastian hadn't known precisely what he was signing up for when he had returned the message to the suggested location. He certainly hadn't expected to instantly be put under, gagged, and tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse. The former sniper had gone through interrogation after interrogation, to which he'd always answered the same question, "Where does your loyalty lie?" Eventually, he'd learned that the right answer was 'Moriarty.'

And so, finally, after months of test jobs and interrogation, at age 21, Sebastian was…in. He'd done a few small hits for Moriarty already, but was still waiting to get assigned something bigger, and this…this could be it, he realized.

_Require assistance. B81. –JM_

He read the code with ease. In the months he'd spent preparing for employment with the criminal mastermind, he'd been given a series of codes he needed to memorize. Nothing in them really stood for anything—they just each had an individual, specific meaning, which was what made them so hard to decipher. They each had to be individually identified; there was no decoding possible because…well, there was nothing to decode. Sebastian was about to text back when another came through, catching him off guard.

_That's a getaway, if you can't read it. Don't dress obvious. –JM_

Shit. Shit shit shit. He was in a bad mood. Despite himself, the sniper's heart hammered. Hopefully this first real job wouldn't be the end of his job. And…the end of him. His fingers raced across his phone's keyboard.

_Sure thing Boss. Be right there. –SM_

Sebastian decided he'd better not wait much longer. Checking that he'd read the location correctly once more, he stuffed a small firearm in his pocket, and was out the door.

**A/N: Hope you guys don't mind the way I write Sebastian. I thought the idea of him being a little younger was interesting. Anyway, reviews let you give Jim a hug. **


	4. Tessellation Part 1

Sebastian was at St. Bart's in (what he thought was) a record timing of three and a half minutes. Hopefully that put Mor—or… 'Boss', as he probably should be getting into the habit of calling him, in a better mood. The sniper couldn't help himself, but he was a little bit…curious. It was just beginning to dawn on him how long it had been since he'd actually _seen_ one of his bosses face to face. Not to mention the fact that Jim Moriarty was a special case. Almost no one actually got to see what he looked like; this wasn't something that bosses usually did with their subordinates, let alone what the king of crime did with a lowly sniper…and a new recruit at that! Sebastian really _had_ made it, he realized. He was at the top. If only his parents could see him now.

Quietly, the sniper pulled up next to the alleyway indicated in the text, making sure the doors were unlocked. He sat there for less than ten seconds before a well dressed, sickly looking man stumbled towards the car, swung himself into the passenger seat beside Sebastian, and growled a single word.

"Drive."

Sebastian didn't need to be told twice. He put his foot to the gas, jolting them forward and off into the main flow of traffic again. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea where he was going. Was that something he was supposed to ask, or did criminal masterminds expect their servants to know that already?

Shit. He was going to have to ask, wasn't he?

"Uh, where to, Boss-?"

"I don't know," Moriarty interrupted in an accented voice that Sebastian couldn't place, "Just let me think."

He sounded tired. Or pained. Or both. The sniper decided to risk a glance at his employer, curiosity finally getting the better of him.

Moriarty was…smaller than Sebastian had anticipated. Not to say he looked frail—he wasn't thin enough to concern or draw attention. But he certainly wasn't the hulking mass of a man that the legends had painted him as. He looked to be of average height…not even six foot, if Sebastian had to guess. God, was he really _taller_ than the legendary Jim Moriarty? The thought was…strange.

Actually, besides the only slightly rumpled suit he wore, which was normal for a criminal leader, there were a few things that struck the sniper as strange. One of the main ones being how pained he looked at the current moment. He had his left hand pressed against his forehead with his eyes closed, and his other hand gripping the armrest of his chair weakly. Maybe this was a test of some sort. Maybe Sebastian was supposed to ask if he was alright. He knew 11 different ways to kill someone with a single needle but had no clue what he was supposed to say and not say around a criminal mastermind. His training was, at the moment, useless.

"Boss, are you…?"

"Good God, are you American?" Moriarty interrupted him again in a voice that implied it was very bad to be American. Sebastian had to fight the urge to answer with a 'Sir, yes sir!' that they'd always used in the military. This was high crime, where everyone spoke in soft, sophisticated tones. Something he always had to fight to imitate correctly.

"Y…yes Boss. Originally," Sebastian realized afterwards how stupid that must have sounded. 'Originally'. Why the Hell did he say that?

"Well let's hope you're smarter than the rest of them. And to answer your previous question I would be much better if you'd arrived earlier. What took you so long?"

"I, uh, had to hotwire the car, Boss," Sebastian explained. Irish. That was what his accent was.

"You _what_?" Moriarty's head snapped over to fix the sniper with a stare that made him want to shiver. Holy _shit_, his eyes were dark.

"I hotwired a car," Sebastian explained, slightly proud that he'd thought of something Moriarty hadn't, "That way, they can't trace back my car to your previous location."

The criminal stared at him.

"…Boss," the sniper added hurriedly. He quailed slightly at the anger in Moriarty's eyes, and when his eyes returned to the road, he had to fight not to wince at the fact that his boss was still staring at him.

"So now," the criminal said quietly, gaze heavy on the sniper's face, "We are driving a stolen car."

Sebastian mentally uttered a string of profanities that would likely have made some of the more sensitive guys in the army cry, "Um…yes?"

"Tell me what the problem with that is."

"Uh…" the sniper stammered, feeling like he was back in school again, "Boss, I'm not very good at this kind of-"

"This. Isn't. A. Fucking. Riddle," Moriarty said through gritted teeth, "Answer me."

"Someone will report it missing," Sebastian realized, "And give the license plate number."

His boss was silent, still waiting expectantly.

"And," the sniper swallowed nervously, realizing his other mistake, "If we had used my car, it would be traced to me first, and you'd have time to get out of it."

Moriarty nodded, "We don't steal cars, unless it is absolutely…" he hissed in what must have been pain, putting his left hand back to his forehead, "…necessary."

"Yes, Boss. Apologies," Sebastian said simply. Maybe Moriarty was in too much pain to kill him today.

"Apologies don't mean anything unless you change your behavior. Make sure…" the mastermind paused, "Make sure this happens. As for our destination…" Moriarty recited an address to him, and Sebastian instantly committed it to memory. No more fuck ups today.

"I'll have us there soon, boss."

A heavy silence fell. Or, maybe Sebastian just thought it was heavy. Moriarty gave off a sort of aura that crackled in the air around him, dark and dangerous. But again, that could just be Sebastian. It was strange, being unnerved by an employer for once. The last time he'd been intimidated like this had probably been when he'd met his _first_ employer. And that had at least been one he'd done hits for. Sebastian was a bit out of his element, now that he was actually chaperoning a boss around, instead of killing for them. Oh, _fuck_, what if he ended up a personal bodyguard? Moran had never liked that idea. Hopefully this was a one time thing, and then he'd get to start doing what he did best again. As often as he killed, sitting next to a…well, a technical serial killer was off putting.

"There is a raise in your future, Moran. Diligence pays well," Moriarty spoke again, making Sebastian, to his horror, almost _flinch_.

What did one say to that? Hadn't he said something about thank yous? Or was disciplined silence better? _Fuck_…

"Thank you, Boss," he finally said, deciding coming off as rude was a worse offense than seeming naive.

The criminal didn't respond, which Sebastian took as a good sign. For a while they just drove in silence, Moran making sure to keep his eye out for possible threats. His first real job was, in fact, turning out to be almost dull. Though just Moriarty's presence did a good job of keeping the sniper on edge.

Suddenly, a loud hiss of pain sounded from Sebastian's left, followed by a soft curse. When he looked over, Moriarty was cradling his right hand and staring at it like it had personally offended him. His breathing was actually slightly labored, the sniper noted…it seemed like he was in more than a little bit of pain. It took him a moment to notice the shine of silver on his injured palm.

_Oh_…Moriarty was…Marked? This day kept getting stranger and stranger. Sebastian still wasn't Marked himself…it wasn't really among his priorities in life, anyway. It never happened to most people anyway and, if he was honest with himself, the whole 'mental bond' part of it didn't appeal to the sniper in the _slightest._ He'd heard that some people had Bonds so strong that they heard each other's _thoughts_. Not just emotions, like most people heard, but _actual, live action_ thoughts. Plus, there was the fact that unless you had a really weak bond, if your Soulmate died, you were screwed. So, for Sebastian, it was a 'no thanks'.

But Jim Moriarty Marked…that was something the sniper never would have guessed. A criminal mastermind shrouded by rumors that would leave most people shaking in their boots had a Soulmate. Huh. Was that why he'd needed such a quick getaway?

Sebastian chanced a glance at his boss again, to find that he was leaning back against the headrest, eyes closed again. Shit, he really looked like he was hurting; Moriarty didn't strike the sniper as the type who showed pain very willingly, and he was definitely showing it now.

A theory started to form in Sebastian's mind. What if Moriarty had _just_ Bonded, and tried to run? That would explain the pain. Apparently, if you didn't spend the first day or so after the initial Bonding with your partner, things didn't form properly and…well, shit happened. It was supposedly excruciating, and the sniper seemed to dimly remember hearing somewhere that it could be fatal. Something about vulnerabilities of the brain. He never had paid attention to that sort of thing because it hadn't seemed relevant to him.

But now…

Now, he sort of wished he'd listened more. Not that he particularly cared about Moriarty, but given that he was Sebastian's new boss, the sniper felt like helping out would win him a few brownie points.

"Are you alright, Boss?"

"I thought I'd already answered that," Moriarty snapped weakly.

"It's just…I couldn't help noticing your hand, Boss…"

After a moment of silence, the criminal responded, "Just fucking drive."

Sebastian didn't try to talk again.

(o0o0o0o0)

Finally, after what seemed to Sebastian like an eternity, the two arrived in Sussex, in front of what the sniper assumed was one of many flats that Moriarty possessed. He brought the stolen car to a stop, grateful that the job was seemingly over, and was surprised when, after a moment, the criminal still was in the car.

The sniper looked over at his boss, not sure what to do. He was still leaned back with his eyes closed—Sebastian would have thought he was asleep if it wasn't for the look of intense concentration on his face.

"We're uh, here, Boss," Sebastian announced awkwardly.

"I know," Moriarty answered weakly, "Just give me a minute."

The sniper thought for a second. He seemed to be in so much pain…maybe if Sebastian helped him, he'd make a better impression.

"Boss, you look sick. I can help you inside if you want."

"I don't want you to," Moriarty growled.

Sebastian sighed, falling silent again until, to his surprise, the criminal spoke again.

"…But some help would be ideal."

Trying to ignore how much his heart was hammering, Sebastian got out of the car and allowed Moriarty to wrap a weak arm around him. He looked _pale_. At first, the criminal seemed determined to barely lean on him at all, but it was clear as soon as they got to the stairs that that would be a short lived effort. By the time they got to the door they were looking for, Sebastian was almost completely carrying Moriarty's weight. The criminal grunted as he produced a key from his pocket, opening up the flat.

The sniper's eyes widened. He lived well off now, and his parents had made good money before he'd run off and joined the army, but _this_ was a nice flat. A mix of red carpeting and deeply colored hardwood floors gave it a warm, older feel, but the stainless steel appliances and modern light fixtures hinted at more modern tones. Not that Sebastian knew about that sort of thing.

"Moran?" Moriarty brought the sniper back to reality.

"Yes, Boss?"

"You can put me down."

"Oh. Right," Sebastian hurriedly let go of the criminal's arm, allowing it to drop off from around his shoulders. Moriarty threw himself down into the nearest armchair, and the sniper had just started to leave when his boss's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Wait," Moriarty called after him monotonously.

Sebastian turned around to find two black orbs staring at him.

"Yes, boss?"

"You are not to disclose this location to anyone, no matter the circumstance. You are not to tell anyone anything about me, including my current condition," he held up his Mark, "Yes," he added, to Sebastian's raised eyebrows, "Even this. If you do by any chance choose to disobey these orders, you will be dead before you have a chance to regret it. Do you understand me?"

The sniper nodded curtly, "Yes, Boss."

"Get that stolen car far away from here."

"Yes, Boss."

"One mistake, Moran. That's all it takes."

"Of course, Boss."

"That's all it takes to convince me of your disposability."

Sebastian swallowed, "Yes, Boss."

Moriarty nodded towards the door, dismissing him, and with a quick, respectful nod, the sniper turned and left.

**A/N: No, this is not a Mormor fic. Sebastian is just a teensy bit afraid of his new boss. **


	5. Tessellation Part 2

Sherlock was as quiet as possible as he climbed the stairs to the flat. Hopefully, John was still with Mrs. Hudson. There were too many windows around the main room for it to be safe from snipers, so that meant if they were in the flat at all, they'd be in one of the bedrooms. The detective gritted his teeth against the pain, holding his breath as he took the steps one at a time, begging that they wouldn't creak.

_God_, his head hurt.

After what felt like an eternity, Sherlock reached the top. He silently opened the door to the flat and stepped inside. Mercifully, it looked to be empty. As a precaution, he took one more quick glance around before quickly and quietly making his way to the kitchen.

Frantically, he searched the countertops for knife, which, after he spotted it, he swiped up in a flash of silver. He needed to discover the truth about this, and quickly. As little as he knew about Soulmates, the detective knew the complexity of Bonds. He knew that if this was a legitimate Mark, there would be some sort of internal sign of it. Sherlock started to undo the bandages he'd wrapped around his Marked hand. Once they were off, he carefully laid them out on the countertop, so as not to tangle them. He wanted to be able to put them on again quickly after he was finished with this.

The detective found himself examining the Mark. It felt so foreign… it was like he'd been violated. It felt dirty on his hand. He hoped dearly that this was all a ploy. That this was a tattoo or ink or _something_. Anything other than a true Mark. Sherlock felt overwhelmed, and dimly he wondered if this was just another mood swing. Biting his lip, he lined the blade of the knife up with his Mark of the same color, and sliced.

Big mistake.

Sherlock gasped, very nearly losing his grip on consciousness for the third time that day. Scarlet flooded from his palm, sticky and warm, but what was shocking was that the pain in his _head_ seemed to increase _at least_ tenfold, making him see black spots and almost collapse to the floor. He sucked in air, feeling absolutely no relief in his lungs, no matter how deeply he breathed. His hand _burned_. He didn't even think he could move it. The detective reached clumsily for the bandages on the counter, starting to wrap them around his hand once more. They had only gone around his hand twice when he realized that the liquid soaking into them wasn't only red…there was also silver mixed in.

Forcing his eyes to focus, the detective unwrapped the bandages one last time to squint at the cut on his palm. His first thought was that his blood was chemically reacting with whatever ink Jim used to make the fake Mark. But as he watched, Sherlock noticed that the silver, while moving slowly, was actively flowing from the wound just as blood was.

Ink didn't do that.

This was real. The throbbing in his hand wasn't because of a drug. There hadn't _been_ any drug. Jim Moriarty hadn't planned this. How could he have? Jim was a genius, but there was no possible way to deduce another person's Soulmate… was there? And besides, why would he want to Bond with Sherlock? He had run after the Bonding because he hated this just as much as the detective did!

Sherlock Holmes was…_Bonded_ with Jim Moriarty. The detective suddenly leaned over the sink to retch, only able to cough up a single mouthful of bile. He was _Bonded_. This couldn't be happening. This _couldn't_ be happening…

A sound on the stairs snapped Sherlock to attention. He instantly grabbed the bandages on the countertop and rapidly twisted them around his Marked hand, blood thoroughly soaking through the first few layers. Just as he finished tying a hasty knot, the door opened near silently.

"Who's there?" a familiar voice called out with authority, "I don't know who you are, but I'm armed and I _will_ shoot you."

"John," Sherlock called weakly, leaning on the counter, "Kitchen."

"Oh, thank God," the doctor's voice instantly softened, "Sherlock, where _were_ y- what's wrong?"

The initial concern on John's face only increased when he caught sight of the detective, who was still breathing hard and in _horrific_ pain.

"Met with Jim," Sherlock managed, vague panic seeping into his mind again. _Why_ wouldn't the mood swings stop?

"You met with-?" John asked incredulously, "Are you _mental_? Sherlock, you look pale."

"You should get back to Mrs. Hudson," the detective evaded, "He might still have snipers…"

"If he wanted me dead, he'd have gotten me in the past few minutes I've been talking to you. Those windows are huge," he gestured towards the living room's main light source, "Why is your hand wrapped? What _happened_?"

Sherlock huffed; maybe if he acted like an arse, John would leave him be, "It's not important. I need to think-"

"Is that _blood_?" the doctor exclaimed, eyes widening at the deep red spattered on the floor and countertop.

The detective attempted to roll his eyes, and only succeeded in making himself more dizzy, "He came at me with a knife," Sherlock invented, "I grabbed it and it got my hand."

"Good God, I can't believe that. I mean, he's mental, but Christ…" John trailed off, studying the instrument, "You don't suppose there's DNA on it, do you? That could seriously help the situation with the police."

"He wore gloves," Sherlock lied monotonously, swaying slightly.

"Of course. Can't catch a break," the doctor mumbled, "Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry about what I said-"

"I know. You have my apologies, as well," he said hastily. Black was starting to fog up Sherlock's vision again…

"It was wrong to call you a machi-Sherlock!" an alarmed John managed to catch the detective as he collapsed, making sure he didn't hit the floor. He was awake again in no more than three seconds.

"S…sorry…." The detective mumbled, disoriented. Oh, _God_, all the pain was rushing back so quickly…

"You need to lay down. Did he drug you?"

"Possibly. Woke up on the rooftop. He was gone by then."

"You met on the rooftop?"

"Unimportant. I need to sleep it off. Doubt it's lethal."

"But what did you two talk-? No, Sherlock we need to go to the hospital. Just because you _doubt_ it's lethal doesn't mean we can trust-"

"Trust _me_," Sherlock pushed, "I _know_ it isn't lethal. Let me sleep."

"Sherlock…"

"John."

The doctor sighed and wrapped an arm around the detective, who was still leaning on him, to help him to his bedroom. Sherlock hoped each step would be the last—with movement he could feel the nausea intensifying and he desperately hoped that he wouldn't vomit on John. _Finally_, mercifully, he was gently helped down to his bed, and the detective closed his eyes, hoping that perhaps the illusion of rest would cause the pain to lessen. In reality, all it did was get rid of any distractions from the throbbing in his head and hand.

"Sherlock, at least let me check your cut before you sleep," John coaxed. Sherlock didn't bother opening his eyes to respond.

"I'll sleep for a few hours, let the drug wear off. Maybe then."

"No, not _maybe_. Yes! Why did he drug you in the first place? And then he came at you with a knife? That story makes _no sense_, Sherlock. Even for you, this is odd!"

The detective could feel another wave of panic seeping through the Bond, and, he hated to admit, it was making him anxious to learn more about this whole 'Soulmates' business. Despite this, he still felt a tiny bit guilty faking sleep in front of an exasperated and concerned John, who stormed out in the most quiet way possible, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

Sherlock waited a minute before moving. Slowly, he sat up, biting his tongue enough so that he wouldn't have to think so much about the pain in his head. He very nearly fell over at least twice in the short five steps to his computer, but finally, he reached it and grabbed it with his left hand, his right hurting too badly to be useful.

Somehow, the detective made it back to his bed, where he turned his laptop on and opened his browser as quietly as possible. He typed google into the address bar, and once he was there, stared at the screen for a moment.

How to get the most concise answers possible? There was undoubtedly some generic medical website that had an article of dubious credibility on the subject, but Sherlock wasn't sure if that would tell him more than first hand experiences would.

Cautiously, he searched for **am i bonded?** and clicked on the first result. Some sort of question answer website. The detective skimmed the question at the top of the page, asked by someone with a cartoon blonde girl as their avatar. Charming.

**Am I Bonded?**

**-I kissed this guy and my heart started beating really fast. I can't get him out of my head, even though we just met. Are we Soulmates and if so, how do I tell my parents?**

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the top rated answer.

**Lol r u fuckin 12?**

Right. That was fun. Dubiously reliable medical website it was. Sherlock tried a search for **how to know if i am bonded **next. He clicked on the first result, an article that matched his question nearly word for word.

**Soulmates and Bonding** it read. To the right of the title, there was an over-edited picture of a smiling woman putting her hand to her endearing husband's cheek. To the left, there was only a series of advertisements that hurt Sherlock's throbbing head to look at. Nevermind. Time to read.

**Finding your Soulmate is a rare and special experience for anyone! Just under 20% of people find and keep their Soulmates, which is quite an incredible statistic! Finding your Soulmate is life changing for many people, and allows them to know another person in a way that…** the detective skimmed for a little while **…But none of this could happen without a Bond! Bonding between Soulmates is triggered by the first touch of skin on skin for a pair. There are no known cases of a Bond happening after the first skin on skin contact, but specialists theorize that this may not be impossible. For some it happens during a kiss, for some it's a pat on the back, and for some, it's a handshake! **

Sherlock wanted to vomit. Nevertheless, he kept reading.

**…A Bond usually shows itself in the form of a silver Mark at the site of initial contact. Each Mark looks different, though those of Mates always match or very closely resemble each other. In rare cases, no Mark appears, however, which could be a sign of ****Bond Disorder.**

He skipped to the part about the initial Bonding.

**…When a Bond first forms between two individuals, a lot of important changes are actually happening in the brain! It is imperative that newly Bonded Soulmates take the necessary precautions below to ensure their mental Bond forms correctly.**

Mental Bond? Sherlock skimmed until he found the section on that.

**…Soulmates also share a mental Bond of varying strength. Some pairs find that they only can sense vague emotions from one another, others share all of their thoughts. Most people are in the middle somewhere.**

Emotions…the mood swings…the detective fought the urge to gag at the fact that he was getting flashes of _Jim Moriarty's_ emotions. At least they weren't complete thoughts, but he felt infected nonetheless. He returned to the section on initial Bonding and the list of precautions.

***First and foremost, stay close together! Your Bond is much more likely to develop correctly if you and your mate are near to one another. Think of it like a cell phone signal. The closer you are to the actual tower, the stronger your signal will be!**

Sherlock had to fight to keep from putting his face in his hands.

***Stay calm and don't stress! If you have a stronger Bond, you may be getting flashes of emotion from your partner already. Don't put them through more stress than they already need. Maybe go see a funny movie together!**

How in the Hell was this on a _medical_ website? Moreover, if he was already getting flashes of Jim's emotions, did that mean they had a strong Bond? Sherlock sincerely hoped not.

***Take care of yourself! Eat nutritious foods, get good sleep, drink water, and **_**don't leave your Soulmate's side**_**. The forming of the Bond can be straining on anyone, so why not make it as easy on yourself as possible?**

Sherlock couldn't take this anymore. He closed the tab and returned to the search engine, entering one last confirmation of the information he already knew, but still dreaded.

**signs of bond strain**, he searched, and clicked the first result once more, skimming straight to the bulleted list.

***Severe headache**

** *Nausea**

** *Dizziness**

** *Burning sensation around Mark**

** *Fatigue**

** *Fainting **

Sherlock skipped to the middle of the page, where a list of consequences of extended Bond strain was. Among the few that jumped out at him were:

***Coma**

** *Brain damage**

** *Permanent Bond mutation**

Good. At least this was a step in the right direction. It would hurt, but the detective wanted more than anything to break this Bond, even if it meant risking brain damage. He couldn't be Bonded with Jim Moriarty. He _couldn't_. Jim was a psychopath. He knew how to play the detective like Sherlock played his violin. A Bond with Moriarty meant getting everything Sherlock cared about taken away from him. It meant hurting. It meant losing John. It meant, if he inferred correctly from the implications of the mood swings, that his emotions would slowly start to fade until…until they were nothing. Until he was like Jim. How many times Sherlock had wished his emotions would disappear…but now that it had the possibility of happening, well, he wasn't sure that was what he wanted at all. Though it _would_ be useful…

To test his theory, the detective searched one last time for **am i bonded with a psychopath**, and clicked the first result that looked at least slightly credible.

**…those who Bond with psychopaths feel the same as everyone else when they are initially Bonded. They still experience the same hormonal changes, and some of the mental ones. A psychopath, however, does not feel emotions or remorse the same as another person does, therefore their Bonded will not experience the same mental Bond as another would.**

** Those Bonded with psychopaths will not feel the same flashes of emotion from their Soulmates as others. One anonymous man stated:**

** "I never felt anything on her end. Everything was dulled, and recently I've started to feel my own emotions fading away, like hers. Occasionally, I get hot flashes in my Mark…she feels the lust aspect of it (we have a romantic Bond), but other than that, there's absolutely nothing. I'd almost describe it like boredom."**

Sherlock had read enough. He closed his laptop slowly and decided he'd rather set it on the bedside table than on the desk it had originally rested at, since that would mean walking.

What now? He supposed he had better rest to get rid of this wretched headache, to begin with. The last article had raised a red flag in his mind, however, that had it racing. If he was getting emotional flashes from Jim, a psychopath, then there was an inconsistency somewhere. He couldn't have been wrong in his deduction—Moriarty showed all the telltale signs of one, so was Jim already playing him; imitating emotions? Perhaps he wasn't in the same pain as Sherlock was, and was trying to convince him to come out and play? Moriarty had never been one to use emotions in the game…it was all intellectual. But what if for him this was easy? What if Sherlock was out of his element? The detective lay down on his back, head spinning, and closed his eyes, trying to map out the problem. He drifted off in about two minutes.

(o0o0o0o0)

Sherlock woke to find John standing over him, holding a knife. He lazily squinted up at the doctor, unfazed by the blood spattered silverware.

"Good. You're awake," John said coldly. The detective felt tendrils of pain wrapping themselves around his head again, more intense than ever. He bit his tongue and waited for the doctor to say more, mostly because he didn't trust himself to speak without moaning.

Sherlock quirked a prompting eyebrow.

"Did Moriarty really come at you with this?" John asked accusingly, not taking his eyes off of the detective's.

"…No," he croaked out. God, either he was getting worse at lying or John was getting smarter.

"Oh, good!" the doctor exclaimed, "Great. Fan_tastic_. You know, I was going to say it was strange he had the same silverware as us."

**A/N: Let me know your thoughts! **


	6. Tessellation Part 3

Jim sighed in relief when Sebastian left. What a mess this was. He knew he couldn't trust the kid in the slightest, but right now that wasn't the problem. He had much bigger fish to fry.

Groaning, he forced himself to stand, swaying on his feet. The room spun around the criminal, and he had to take a minute to get his bearings before actually moving. He needed to keep his strength up, in case Jo decided to pull something particularly bold. She had to _pay_ for what she'd done today. What a horrendous time to have his second in command betray him. Had she somehow known that he and Sherlock would Bond? Jim didn't know, and at this point, with the room starting to spin and tilt faster around him, he didn't particularly care anymore.

The criminal took a step towards the kitchen, the countertop looking more and more inviting with every step he took. It was something to lean on, something that he needed quite desperately at this point. Jim half fell onto it when he finally reached his destination, breathing heavily and shaking with fatigue. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapping on the name of a particularly brutal assassin still high on his ranks before sending a text.

_1368, 1393, 1310 –JM_

A few seconds later, he got a reply.

_How do you want it done? –AL_

The letters swam in front of Jim's eyes as he attempted to type.

_I don't. Hold them securely until I decide how I want it done. I'm thinking building 898. I will pay you personally and handsomely. –JM_

_ Will do, Boss. –AL_

_ Do not disappoint me. –JM_

Not waiting to see the response, Jim set his phone aside and ran a hand over his face. He could barely _move_ his Marked hand; it felt as though someone was searing all the skin off his hand with a blowtorch while pressing it down onto a bed of nails _all at once_. The criminal had never been one to hurt easily, but _this_…this was agony_._

An unexpected, severe wave of revulsion suddenly washed over Jim. He had no idea what he was so disgusted by, though he supposed there were plenty of things that made sense. The criminal felt bile rise in his throat and, this time, he wasn't able to suppress it. He was barely able to stumble to the sink and lean over before the first heave, emptying the contents of his stomach.

After a few final dry heaves, Jim coughed and spat, grimacing at the bitter taste now in his mouth. He leaned against the counter, wanting nothing more than a cold glass of water he wasn't sure he was even able to pour.

It would have been nice if Sebastian was here to do that for him.

Moriarty shook his head. What was he thinking? Moran was an employee; it would be unprofessional for him to be doing such things. In fact, it was unprofessional enough to have him know where Jim lived at all. Hopefully, he'd successfully returned the stolen car. Moronic child. How the Hell someone could do as well on the initiation as Moran had and still be so hopelessly clueless was a mystery to Jim. Though perhaps he'd bribed his way in. Maybe the criminal should keep his eye on him…

Jim's head throbbed, making him gasp and press a hand to his forehead again. Someone was crushing his skull with rocks, the pressure increasing until it felt almost unbearable; _surely_ it had to end soon. Maybe he'd pass out…

Reluctantly, the criminal removed his hand from his head and, biting his tongue to keep from moaning, shakily removed his gun from his trousers, reaching slightly to open a drawer with a second bottom and tossing the weapon inside. He wouldn't be needing that today, after all. Sherlock had made damn sure of that. Jim then stumbled to the door, setting every one of the locks he had in place. Now that Jo had proved herself unworthy, he had to be extra cautious, even when one of his best assassins was looking for her. Now including Moran, she was one of the two people who actually knew where Moriarty lived, and Jim didn't want to risk hiring anyone to watch out for him, after this betrayal. Actually…

Maybe he should text Moran. He already knew where Jim lived anyway, and he seemed to fear him enough to remain loyal. The sniper was still young and stupid.

The criminal stumbled over to where his phone lay again and sent out a text.

_When you're done with the car, I want you back here. Rent a flat and watch out for suspicious activity near mine. I will reimburse you for rent, amenities, etc in addition to a bonus. –JM_

In what must have been record timing, Moran responded.

_Yes, Boss. –SM_

Instead of feeling relieved, Jim felt another pulse of revulsion go through him, still for unknown reasons. Maybe it was the nausea. Speaking of which, if he was going to be throwing up, the criminal figured he should change out of his suit into something more casual. What if this went on for weeks? How was he supposed to manage his empire then? Right now he could barely _walk_ without feeling exhausted…

The criminal gagged again, this time able to will himself not to vomit. He needed to get changed. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have even thought about the walk to his bedroom. It was so rarely used, anyway—he hated sleeping so much that he avoided it until exhaustion started to interfere with his functioning. Now the door looked a few kilometers away, rather than a few meters. What he wouldn't give now, just to be able to feel well and lay down for a few hours. He wasn't sure he could sleep when he hurt this badly, though he supposed he'd have to try.

Dazed with pain, Jim started the journey to his bedroom. He made it about halfway before a jolt of pain sent him slumping to the floor.

(o0o0o0o0)

"Why the _hell_ would you hurt yourself like this, Sherlock?" John asked angrily, reentering the detective's room with a medical kit in hand, "What did Moriarty _say_ to you?"

He laughed weakly, "We barely talked for twenty minutes."

The doctor shook his head, "It doesn't _matter_, Sherlock! What did he say that would make you do this to yourself?" Sherlock felt gentle fingers start undoing the bandages on his hand, and his heartbeat spiked in panic.

"He didn't say anything!" the detective exclaimed, inventing wildly, "I had that knife with me in case of an ambush and he-"

"Sherlock, stop."

The words died in Sherlock's throat, and a heavy silence fell over the room. He refused to meet John's eyes, studying the half undone bandages on his Marked hand.

"Leave me be," he said weakly, disgusted with himself. He was sickened by his own failure. Failure to fix this problem efficiently, failure to hide his Mark for longer than two hours, and failure to end Moriarty before all of this could have happened.

John watched him steadily, as though he knew of the turmoil inside the detective's mind. Sherlock still didn't look at him.

"You know," the doctor finally said, "The police still think you invented him. Lestrade texted me saying-"

"Yes, I know," the detective interrupted moodily.

"Right," John acknowledged, ever calm, "Listen, Sherlock. Greg is coming over in a few to talk about fixing this. We'll sort this out. But if you're having suicidal thoughts, I need to know so we can-"

"Suicidal thoughts?" Sherlock frowned at his friend, finally meeting his eyes, "Is that what you think this is about?"

"You took a knife to your hand, Sherlock."

The detective didn't bother voicing his immediate first thought: if he had wanted to kill himself, he'd have been long dead before John even had a chance to guess something was wrong. He knew every method, the risks of each, the likelihood of failure. He'd learned a lot while he'd been a teenager, and something had always prevented him from deleting the information.

Erratic anger flared up in Sherlock's chest. He supposed he was going to have to tell, then, wasn't he? No use worrying John over the wrong thing. At least now they could work together on a solution.

"It's not _my hand_, anymore," he said through gritted teeth.

"What are you going on about-?"

Unable to take it anymore, Sherlock yanked his bandaged hand out of Johns', ignoring the way the doctor's eyes widened at how much it shook, and ripped the rest of the bandages off in one, violent tug.

The pain was _blinding_, but Sherlock bit his lip until he tasted iron to keep from crying out. He didn't care anymore. Jim wanted to ruin his life, fine. But he was going to make _damn sure_ it hurt while he was doing it. He hoped ruefully that the criminal had felt the same pain he had, just now.

Panting from exertion and anger, the detective tossed the bandages aside and waited. John was very quiet again, his expression gone blank as he waited for Sherlock's breathing to slow. Finally, as hopelessness started to replace Sherlock's anger, he spoke, quiet as a mouse.

"Sherlock, is that a Mark?"

The detective snorted caustically, "No, it's a tattoo."

"Don't…" John started, but abandoned that argument before he'd even touched it, "Are you sure it's…him?"

"We shook hands, John. It definitely happened then."

"How do you know?" John pushed, still apparently hoping that for once Sherlock was wrong.

"We both blacked out," the detective said tonelessly, pretending he didn't notice the horror on the doctor's face increase tenfold.

"Shit," John hissed.

"What?"

"No, it's…" the doctor shook his head, "How are you feeling? What are your other symptoms?"

Sherlock told him.

"_Shit_…" John cursed again, grating on the detective's nerves.

"What?" he asked testily, "Why is that bad, other than the fact that I feel like someone is kneading my mind like dough?"

"…That's…" the doctor said slowly, "That's a strong Bond, Sherlock. Those are all signs. I don't think we can break-"

"We have to break it!" Sherlock exclaimed, panicked. John only looked at him sadly.

"It will kill you, Sherlock," he said quietly, "You can't break a Bond that strong without killing both Soulmates-"

"Don't say that word!" the detective shouted, getting up to pace despite the screams of protest from his body. He didn't care that his vision was going dark at the edges. All that mattered was that Moriarty _had_ to be beaten.

"What do you want me to call it?"

"Anything else," Sherlock shook his head, "What time is Lestrade visiting? We can't tell him. He'll think we were working together all this time."

John nodded slowly, "I agree. We need to find Moriarty. Allow the Bond to form, then we can worry about-"

"No," the detective disagreed, "I don't care what the consequences are, I will not be _Bonded_ to that…that…"

"…Psychopath," the doctor finished softly, "I don't like it either, Sherlock, but you'll die if we keep you two apart. Brain damage at the very least. For both of you, not just him."

"As long as he suffers, I'm willing to go down with him."

Sherlock felt John's gaze harden, and he stopped pacing to cock his head at the doctor.

"What?"

"No by all means," John said coldly, "Die. See if I care."

_Oh_. It suddenly dawned on Sherlock that dying without taking your friends' feelings into account was considered rude by the general population.

"John, I didn't-"

"Do I really," the doctor's voice started to rise as he stood up, "mean that _little _to you, Sherlock? You'd off yourself without even _thinking_ of what that might do to me?"

"John, Moriarty has to be stopped-"

"And we _can_ stop him, if only you'll just allow the Bond to form-!"

"If we let it form, he'll know my thoughts! He'll be harder to kill than ever! He's at least weak now!"

"You don't _know_ that, though! He could have been faking his blackout! He left before you, Sherlock. That's too lucky of a coincidence. What kinds of mood swings have you been getting?"

"Anger," Sherlock proclaimed triumphantly, "Panic, fear. He didn't plan for this, John. He's hiding. If I can find him, he'll be so easy to-"

"Alright, I can't listen to this," John threw up his hands in defeat, starting towards the door, "You know, Sherlock, I really thought more of you. I never knew you could be this selfish."

"Selfish?" Sherlock called after him, "Who's the one forcing me to stay alive?" Anger heated his veins, an ugly red accent to the pain clouding his vision.

The door to the flat slammed, leaving the detective alone.

(o0o0o0o0)

Jim woke up on the floor, ears ringing. For a horrible, panicked moment, he thought someone had broken in and captured him, but then he remembered. His Marked hand had been hurting and he'd blacked out. The criminal forced his eyes open.

He was a few paces away from the bedroom door, lying on his side. _Fantastic_. Now he couldn't even get across his flat. Maybe this at least meant the Bond was breaking. Hopefully. Moriarty could already feel the burn in his palm returning, along with the pain in his head, and if he was honest with himself, he wasn't sure he'd be able to handle it for over a month. In fact, even another _day_ of this seemed daunting. He was vulnerable like this, especially after Jo's betrayal, and vulnerability was a very dangerous thing for someone in his profession to have. Especially when Sherlock was still trying to get him convicted.

_Sherlock._

The thought of the detective made Jim angry enough that he sat up too quickly, sending his head spinning again. The criminal didn't care. Sherlock Holmes was motivation enough to fight through the pain. In fact, he was motivation enough to suffer through a _year_ of this pain, if it meant breaking the Bond and getting back on track with their plans. Jim gritted his teeth, fighting his way up the wall into a standing position. His heart hammered from a mix of exhaustion and fury, tinting his vision red.

He was supposed to be _dead_ by now.

Everything had been planned out flawlessly. So, so flawlessly. Moriarty had given them both a golden ticket out of this world and Sherlock _apparently_ had the gall to refuse it. Not only that, but he had to add insult to injury by throwing Bonding into the mix.

It was ordinary. Sherlock had made Jim ordinary—no, he'd made them _both_ ordinary. The only two special people in the world, and the detective had decided to _ruin_ them both, rather than to die with dignity.

It was insulting. It was sickening. Jim felt _dirty_. He felt used. He'd been _stupid_ enough to think that Sherlock wasn't ordinary, and what did he have to show for it now? His entire plan had been rejected; foiled by an angel who would rather take the road everyone else took.

The criminal's head throbbed. He hated Sherlock. He truly, deeply hated Sherlock Holmes. There had been a time when he'd thought they would share a destiny together, but that time was passed. Last time, he'd been merciful. He'd been kind; built them a destiny together. But now…now his kindness had run out.

Moriarty was going to make Sherlock fall again. And this time, it was going to hurt.


	7. Penumbra

**A/N: MAJOR self harm trigger warning.**

John stormed out of 221B, pushing all of Sherlock's previous warnings about Moriarty and snipers from his mind. Jim didn't want him; he wanted Sherlock. And right now, that was simply becoming too much.

People on the pavement passed the doctor in a blur as his thoughts raced. He was angry. More angry than he'd been in a while. Though he supposed that didn't mean much. John and Sherlock had fought a lot since this whole fiasco had started. He'd been hoping, in spite of himself, that it might end soon. Just a little bit of normalcy wasn't too much to ask for, was it? Not that he didn't _like_ the excitement, but this…this was starting to hurt. John didn't like seeing Sherlock getting thinner by the day, unable to eat because he was figuring out a new, sick puzzle. John didn't like the idea of some creep giggling as he stalked their blogs, strapping people to bombs and constructing sick obstacle courses for them to race through. He liked cases. Running after criminals at midnight and making his body and mind work like only Sherlock could make them work. Not this.

The doctor stopped to look at an advertisement showing a grinning man and woman, obviously Soulmates, kissing with their hands entwined. He narrowed his eyes at the text above their heads.

**Want this? Finding your one and only Soulmate is only a click away! To find out more, go to and start your 30 day free trial! Because life's too short to spend alone!**

John's mouth twisted into a disgusted scowl. How could something so romanticized become so twisted? Sherlock was Bonded now. Bonded to a madman who would happily see them both dead. If only they'd never touched hands. _Why_ had they needed to shake hands? What had possessed Sherlock to do that? No…more importantly, what were the consequences going to be?

Obviously, Sherlock didn't like the idea of allowing the Bond to form, but really, what was their other option? John knew a strong Bond when he saw one and Sherlock had _every symptom_. If this didn't form correctly, either death or severe brain damage would result, and the doctor was _not_ willing to accept either of those options. This was Sherlock. Sherlock who was a constant; an anchor. Losing him was something John didn't think he'd be able to make it through. The detective had saved his life, and even now, John needed him like he needed oxygen.

How sad was that?

The doctor shook his head, continuing to stomp down the street. It could be worse. At least, according to Sherlock, Moriarty was panicking too. At least he didn't plan this. That was something. Maybe they could find a way to use this to their advantage. Maybe Sherlock could find a way to delete or suppress the Bond. Maybe…

A distraction slammed into John's shoulder—luckily, not his injured one, and interrupted his musing. Just as the doctor's eyes found the assailant, however, the irritation disappeared not just from them, but from his expression entirely.

"Sorry!" a wide eyed brunette panted, glancing around nervously before continuing running away from him. John's mouth fell open a little bit as he stared after her, suddenly wishing he hadn't worn so much clothing today.

Oh, God…what if that had been it? What if that was her? What if that was his Soulmate? If it wasn't Sherlock, who else could it be? This was like a movie scene. What if he never saw her again? Cursing under his breath, he deliberated calling after her for half a second before noticing the sad truth.

She was already gone.

"Damn it!" John cursed loudly, earning him a dirty look from an elderly couple. That could have been it. His one chance to get away from all this _madness_ and he'd blown it. She'd been so pretty, too. And clearly afraid—it was hard to tell if her eyes had actually been as big as he'd thought they were, or just widened in panic. What was following her? Or who? He should have _helped_ her, instead of standing there drooling like a prick…

John's phone rang, and he reluctantly checked the caller i.d to see Lestrade's name. _Shit_. He really should have told Greg not to come over. God_dammit_. He'd been so preoccupied with thinking about himself and his own Soulmate that he'd forgotten about the real problem at hand. Sherlock was Bonded to a monster and here he was worrying about his own Mate? What was wrong with him?

"Greg," the doctor greeted tensely.

_"John…you said to come over-"_ Lestrade said hesitantly, trailing off.

"Yeah, yeah I did…" John pressed a hand to his temple; all this was giving _him_ a headache, "Listen, Greg, it's not a great time."

_"I know," _Greg said earnestly, _"Sherlock's bloody Bonded? When did this happen? He's on the floor, John-"_

All the air left John's lungs, "He's _what_?" the doctor exclaimed, slightly panicked that Lestrade knew the truth.

_"He's on the floor. I'd call a doctor, but with the press and everything, I thought you'd be the one to tell first-"_

"Fucking-!" he looked around in a panic, as if anything of use could be found amongst the landscape of brick and asphalt, "Greg, whatever you do, _don't tell anyone about this_. Understand? No one. He's Bonded to Jim Moriarty as of earlier today and we-"

_"Wait, what? I think I must have heard wrong…"_

"Sherlock," the doctor enunciated carefully, "is Bonded to Jim Moriarty."

_"…Jim MORIARTY? Are you barking mad?" _John started at the outburst, which only served to fuel his own worry more.

"Yes, Jim Moriarty. We can't tell press, for obvious reasons. It was a complete accident. They…shook hands and it just happened. Sherlock tried to hide it from me at first but-"

_"Wait, wait, am I hearing this right? Jim fucking Moriarty? As in the bloke who stole the crown jewels and broke into Pentonville on the SAME DAY?"_

"Yes!" John said impatiently.

_"The same Jim Moriarty who Sherlock's been going on about for weeks?"_

"Yes!"

"…_You're joking."_

The doctor huffed in frustration, "Just promise me this is between us until it's sorted out. Promise me, Greg."

There was an uncomfortably long silence. John listened to traffic to pass the time.

_"Of course, John. I won't tell a soul. But Jesus Christ, what are you going to do?"_

The doctor sighed tiredly, noticing the use of 'you' instead of 'we', "I don't know, Greg. Everything keeps getting more and more complicated."

_"I'll try to help as much as I can. But mate, you really need to get over here. Sherlock looks like he's in a lot of pain."_

"Yeah, well there's not much I can do about it, is there?" John snapped, "We can't exactly let the Bond form. We don't even know where the bloke is!"

_"This looks bad, John. I haven't seen him this pale in a long time. Stop by the drugstore on your way back and grab him something to take the edge off-"_

"Don't tell me what to do," he said coldly, "Since when do you care about what happens to Sherlock, anyway? You sold him out!"

_"I didn't have a choice. This is my job. What makes you trust him?"_

John's cheeks flushed in anger, "Because he's my best friend! I know him, Greg, and so do you! You think Sherlock would honestly enjoy hurting another person? _Really?_"

_ "…Look," _Lestrade said slowly, _"All the evidence points to him having a hand in it. I don't want to consider that possibility, because he's my friend too, but-"_

"But _nothing_!" John exclaimed, "Just a minute ago, you were talking about how horrible Jim Moriarty is, and now you're back to thinking he was a made up character?"

_"John, I have to consider everything," _Greg said weakly, _"People have died. This Bond doesn't change anything that happened. If anything, it works against Sherlock. Two psychopaths Bonded together-"_

John hung up, unable to listen anymore. This was hopeless. This whole _fucking_ situation was hopeless. Now Greg knew about the Bond and they couldn't even be sure he would keep the secret. Sherlock was in pain, Moriarty was nowhere to be found, and according to the London police force, Sherlock Holmes was a fugitive. They had no one to run to, not even Mycroft. John felt like the ground was falling out from underneath him, every side a different obstacle. To his right was fire, his left, quicksand, in front was water…

He sighed, putting his phone away and starting the short walk to the drugstore. London looked very grey today.

(o0o0o0o0)

Jim leaned over the bathtub, his entire body shaking as he gritted his teeth against the pain in his head. Hair frazzled, skin pale, and clothed in a simple t-shirt and sweatpants, he didn't look half as intimidating as usual. The criminal didn't have time to acknowledge this uncomfortable fact, however. Right now, all of his attention was focused on holding the knife in his left hand steady.

With great effort, he spread the fingers of his Marked hand, eyeing the shimmering skin with contempt. He was tainted; dirty. This needed to change. Sherlock was going to _hurt_. If that meant Jim had to hurt along with him, so be it.

Eyes black with hatred, Moriarty lined the tip of the thin blade up with the edge of his Mark, and sliced.

Warmth flooded over his palm, and Jim gasped as the pain in his skull increased tenfold, hating how he sounded like a wounded animal. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and black clouded the edges of his vision, blurring all thoughts save for the one that was most important: _Do it again._

The criminal obliged, slicing his palm again and again, fueled by nothing other than pure, unadulterated rage. _Sherlock's fault. _This was all _his_ _fault._ The noise of silverware on skin was like nails on a chalkboard to Jim, and he _loved it_ because of that. He was blinded by the pain; forgetting his name, his profession, his location. Nothing mattered except for breaking the Bond. He had to do this. He _had to_…

Moriarty was seeing red, though he wasn't sure it was only because of the scarlet running down his arm and the side of the tub. Everything he could see throbbed bright red, ever darkening at the edges. The smell of iron was so strong he could actually _taste _it in the back of his throat, along with another less prominent smell that he couldn't put his finger on. Probably had something to do with the silver leaking out of his hand in tiny, silver droplets. His palm was on fire, and his mind was being slashed to ribbons, but at least Sherlock was hurting. _At least_ there was that.

Another pained noise escaped him as he continued to cut, now trying to get under the skin, having finished a complete, jagged circle around the Mark. He had to continue. Had to…had to…

Suddenly, Jim realized how weak he felt. He could almost sleep, if everything didn't hurt so badly. He shivered violently, trying to catch his breath. Why was he suddenly so cold? He wanted to curl up somewhere and…what? Die, preferably. But that would mean he'd never settle anything with Sherlock. That couldn't happen. He had to get this _out of him_. They had to finish the game. God, how was it that his body was so cold but his hand was so _hot_?

Black was creeping into the edges of Jim's vision at an alarming rate now, effectively extinguishing his rage like a wall of water. Except blackness didn't have a feeling to it—it was just blackness.

The criminal sobbed, weakly bringing the knife up to his tattered palm, still pouring a nauseating mixture of silver and red, only to find that he didn't have the energy to hold it anymore. Jim dropped the instrument with a clang, slumping over the tub and succumbing to the blackness.

(o0o0o0o0)

John entered 221B to hear a slight rustling. The doctor's initial, preposterous thought was one involving Anderson on a drugs bust, but then he remembered: Sherlock was hurting. Greg had said as much on the phone, and he knew enough of social cues to leave after he'd been hung up on. So this was either Sherlock or…someone else.

Heart rate picking up slightly, John cautiously opened his mouth to call out to the detective, only to have him speak first.

"_John…"_ Sherlock called weakly, voice catching at the end slightly. Concerned on a far deeper level than he had been before, John rushed into the detective's bedroom. He stopped in his tracks in the doorway, mouth falling open slightly.

Sherlock was lying on his bed (at least Lestrade had had the grace to help him off the floor), but he looked…_possessed._ His back was arched slightly and he writhed in clear discomfort, teeth clenched in a grimace against a clearly very present pain. He clutched his Marked hand with a ferocity that turned his knuckles white, holding it to his chest like it was a lifeline.

"Joh-"

"Shh shh shh, Sherlock," the doctor murmured urgently, rushing to his friend's side, "What hurts?"

"He's…he's _cutting-_" the detective's voice caught again as his body gave a violent jerk, moaning in pain.

"Okay," John acknowledged, alarmed, moving in an attempt to steady Sherlock, "Say that again for me? Sherlock, open your eyes."

The detective obliged, looking up at the doctor with an expression that hurt to look at, "He's cutting his Mark," Sherlock groaned, "John, I can't…I _can't_…" his last word ended in a gasp.

"Christ," John muttered, shaking his head, "Sick bastard. Sick, twisted, fucking bastard. What emotions are you getting from his end?"

"He's angry," Sherlock croaked, "Very, very angry. _God_, it hurts…"

"You might be getting some of his pain in with yours," he said gently, trying to figure out how to help with the situation at hand.

The detective didn't respond, only continued squirming in anguish. John watched him helplessly for a moment before he remembered his drugstore purchases. It wasn't much, but something was better than anything.

"I got you some painkillers," the doctor said weakly, holding them up even though Sherlock had his eyes shut again, "They won't help much, but it's something-"

"God _damn_ it!" the detective shouted, making John almost drop the drugs.

"What?" he asked, startled.

"He's cutting it _out_…"

The doctor didn't bother to ask how Sherlock could know that; he supposed there were some things about Bonds you could only learn from experience. Not that this was an experience he would wish on anyone.

"Is he fucking demented?" John asked, starting to get angry at Jim again.

"Ye…_yes_…" Sherlock panted, now trying to hold his Marked hand and his head at the same time. It was pitiful.

"Alright, wait here," the doctor instructed, "I'm going to get some ice for your head, and some water so you can swallow these," he rattled the painkillers in their box, "Sound good?"

John took the lack of response to mean that it did. He rushed to the kitchen, hands and feet steady as he gathered the things he needed. When he returned to the bedroom, Sherlock lie deathly still on the bed, chest barely moving up and down.

"Sherlock?" he rushed to the detective's side again, accidentally sloshing some water onto the floor, "Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Mm hm," Sherlock answered, voice barely audible.

"What-? Did he stop?" John asked incredulously.

"Think so," the detective's Marked hand still trembled dangerously, but the rest of his body looked ready to sink into the bed. It already was, in fact.

The doctor sighed, "I'm still making you take the painkillers."

Sherlock didn't protest.

**A/N: I know, I know. They're hurting and it's awful. I want my babies to kiss just as much as you do. Reviews let you give Jim and Sherlock blankets and hugs and kisses. **


	8. Apastron

(3 days later)

Sebastian's eyelids drooped; he'd done very little sleeping in the last few days, and Moriarty hadn't offered him any sign of a reprieve from his task yet. Watching for threats was dull work, and as well trained as the sniper was, he was only human, and needed rest. At least in the army he would have been relieved of duty for long enough to have a decent meal and sleep. Criminals were not so generous.

The sniper stretched. He needed a way to stay awake, while also not distracting himself from his job. Absentmindedly, he tore his gaze from the window to check his phone, and cursed when he saw there were three missed messages. Sebastian's panic ebbed slightly, however, when he saw they were not from his boss. Still, a close call. He'd have to work on watching that more closely.

**Proposition for you. Text back if interested. **

Sebastian narrowed his eyes at the first text. There was no signature on it; only an unknown phone number. Jesus, maybe Moriarty really _did_ have people who wanted to unseat him. It was strange to think about anyone having the courage to even interact with the consulting criminal; actually trying to _kill_ him was almost incomprehensible.

Although…if he thought about it, the sniper wasn't sure how difficult it could actually be. Were people really _that_ loyal to Moriarty? He only gave them their paychecks. Sebastian was close enough now that it actually seemed doable, if it ever became necessary. The consulting criminal could never overpower him in just physical strength alone…but maybe he was being cocky.

The sniper glanced down at the other two messages.

**Stakes changed. Offering a handsome reward for location of Jim Moriarty. Consider carefully. **

** Sebastian Moran, if you value your appendages, take the offer. You have six hours to reply.**

He snorted at the last text. Luckily, it was from only about an hour ago. Damn, whoever was sending these was desperate. The fact that they knew his name was concerning, but not surprising. He'd received threats loads of times before; it was just part of the job. The only thing that made this different was that these killers, whoever they were, were probably _way_ higher up on the hierarchy than the usual jokers who sent him threats.

Maybe he'd better see what their offer was.

**What is the reward offered? –SM**

A reply appeared in less than five seconds.

**Name your price. **

Sebastian shook his head to himself. They'd have to do better than that if they wanted him to betray the king of crime himself.

**Name yourself. –SM**

There was a short pause that allowed the sniper time to glance out the window. He turned back to his phone when he saw it light up out of the corner of his eye.

**Call me a benefactor.**

Sebastian inwardly scoffed. _He'd_ call them dramatic.

**My price is high. –SM**

** I'm willing to pay it.**

** Are you able to pay it? –SM**

** Name it.**

The sniper paused. This could easily become the price of his life. No use for modesty here.

**200k –SM**

Sebastian waited, but there was still no response after a minute. Hm. He should have known they weren't really serious. Actually, he could probably get a lot more out of this if he just brought it to Moriarty. Maybe then his loyalty would be proved and his salary raised.

It was tempting. He'd been sitting here for so long that it hurt his eyes to look _away_ from the window. But going to see Moriarty without permission was…risky. If Boss ended up upset, Sebastian could easily end up destroying his entire life's work, just in one go. And since this was the big man himself, there wasn't likelihood of a recovery for his career. However, the possible money this could offer if Moriarty ended up pleased was _mouth watering,_ and it was because of this that the sniper ended up stuffing a firearm in his pocket and leaving for the boss's flat.

(o0o0o0o0)

Sebastian checked his phone again before knocking on Moriarty's door. Still no response from the mystery 'benefactor', but the glowing screen made the sniper realize something suddenly so obvious, he had to fight against the temptation to hit himself in the face.

_Why the fuck_ hadn't he texted Moriarty first? Then he would have had every reason to come over, and there wouldn't have been this risk of 'will my boss shoot me for disobeying direct orders'.

Jesus fucking Christ. Alright. Well, he was here already. Might as well knock. Was that something people did? Knock on the doors of criminal masterminds? God, Sebastian felt more clueless than he ever had in his life. What could he say, though? Jim Moriarty was intimidating. Sebastian wasn't afraid of, well, anyone. Anyone _except_ Jim Moriarty. Actually, now that he thought about it, would he even be _home_? The criminal probably had dozens of flats scattered around London. Of course, he _had_ been sick. Maybe he was making a base here.

On the other hand…what if he'd been lying? This was a _genius_. Moriarty wouldn't be dumb enough to let a rookie like Sebastian know where he was staying, would he? Now that the sniper thought about it, Moriarty probably told him to stay stationed here so that _he_ had a way of knowing where Sebastian was. Not the other way around. The criminal mastermind could be in Cuba right now, for all Moran knew.

And that being the case…what kinds of things were to be found in the flat of the world's most dangerous criminal?

Oh, God. Sebastian could probably find things in there worth more than all of his ancestor's heirlooms put together. In fact, if he put his entire _family_ together, what was in this flat would probably still be worth more than them. And that was even though this was one of _many_ flats. Plus, how much would people _pay_ to see this stuff?

A lot. Probably more than the 200k his 'benefactor' had unknowingly offered. This was, Sebastian decided, _definitely_ worth risking his life for.

Licking his lips nervously, the sniper knocked slightly on the door. The noise echoed like a gunshot through the hallway, but Sebastian didn't care. He listened intently for a response, ears ringing with the effort.

Nothing.

Sebastian hadn't really thought through what he was going to do next, especially given the fact that Moriarty was bound to have dozens of locks on his door. The sniper tried the knob, not surprised when it wouldn't turn.

He could leave. He could just go back to his post. If Moriarty came back and saw that all his locks were broken, he would _kill_ Sebastian. Literally. The sniper had heard horrifying things of what the consulting criminal did to people; not even necessarily employees. He'd heard stories about teeth getting ripped out, one by one, of people flayed alive or forced to watch their families hung on butcher hooks. It was stomach churning, and yet…

The _money_…

Making his mind up with a resounding silent 'fuck it', Sebastian threw himself up against the door. To his surprise, it gave after only about three tries. A chain skittered across hardwood floors, finally coming to a stop a few feet away from where the sniper stood. Slowly, with one hand on where his gun resided in his jacket, Sebastian closed the door behind him and took a silent step forward. It occurred to him that he might have set an alarm off, but if Moriarty was having trouble with other employees, who was he going to send alarm signals to? The police?

Sebastian stepped forward a few more paces. He needed to check the entire flat. Make sure no one was here to sneak up on him. If anyone was going to be surprised today, he didn't want it to be him. Grateful for the carpeting that covered the vast majority of the flat, Moran checked the rest of the living room and kitchen, two closets, and a bathroom. That only left one door, which was presumably the bedroom.

_Shit._ He was almost home free. Holy fuck, if he got away with this, Sebastian didn't think his ego would _ever_ deflate. Or his wallet. God _damn_. Robbing a criminal mastermind almost made the sniper wish he would have grandkids to tell this story.

If he lived long enough. He could easily die as soon as he turned this knob.

Heart thumping, Sebastian opened the last door. His nostrils were instantly bombarded with the smell of iron, and he winced, a few memories of combat forcing their way to the front of his mind. Stomach churning, the sniper quickly found the source of the smell.

Jim Moriarty lie curled in on himself at the center of the bed, almost in a fetal position. He was barely recognizable, and not only because he was dressed in a simple shirt and sweatpants. No, what was really throwing Sebastian off was how…dead the criminal mastermind looked.

The sniper didn't think he'd ever seen anyone so pale in his _life._ Moriarty didn't look pale like someone who didn't get out much—he looked _inhumanly_ white. Like snow. His dark hair looked like a bird's nest, partially plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes were closed, completely unaware of Sebastian's presence. A blood covered bandage was poorly wrapped around his right hand (his Marked hand, the sniper wondered?), and old looking stains of red spattered the rest of his clothes, as well.

He looked…pitiful. It was saddening to Sebastian to look at him. Moran had always hated seeing people sick. He knew he should feel excited right now, but he couldn't help feeling…bad for Jim. Was that wrong; feeling bad for a murderer? Did Moriarty have anyone to take care of him? Sebastian was a killer, too. Did anyone feel sympathy for _him_, ever?

The sniper mentally slapped himself. What was the matter with him? He should smother Moriarty, grab some money and _go._ Or he could always torture him for information; he'd learned a few nifty techniques over the years. But did he have the stomach to use them? Especially on someone so defenseless? Jesus, Jim looked thin. He was so _small_…

Fuck. Mother of fucking shit. Sebastian was going to have to help him. Cautiously, like he was approaching a lion, the sniper made his way to the bed.

Oh, God. He'd been hoping the criminal would wake up by himself. Now it looked like that was going to be Sebastian's problem.

Ever so slowly, the sniper leaned towards the sleeping mastermind, placing a hand that suddenly felt far too big on his shoulder, and gave it a gentle shake.

Moriarty jolted violently, eyes instantly snapping open and locking onto Sebastian. For a brief, surprising moment, the criminal looked terrified, before recognition set in. After that, dark, chilling rage flooded his dark irises, making the sniper suppress a shiver. Moriarty shook violently, and sweat beaded on his forehead, but that didn't take away from the intimidating image at all. He reminded Sebastian of a caged, cornered animal.

It suddenly occurred to the sniper that he would have to speak first. Jim's eyes were boring into him like knives, despite the very obvious pain he was in.

"Um, hi Boss…" Sebastian started awkwardly, heart thumping loudly, "I know I've left my post, but I wanted to show you these texts I got…"

He flinched when he looked back into Moriarty's eyes, almost losing his train of thought.

_Oh, God. He knows._

Just as Sebastian was about to open his mouth to beg forgiveness, a strangled noise escaped Moriarty's throat, catching both men off guard. Now that the sniper really looked, Jim was actually breathing pretty heavily…

"Uh, Boss-"

"Just shut up, you fucking imbecile," Moriarty hissed, obviously stifling another small moan, "Do you know what happens to men who leave their posts?"

Sebastian had a number of ideas on this subject, but he was fairly sure, with how strained the criminal's voice sounded, that he didn't have to worry about any of them. This calming thought started to bring back the sniper's practice in the criminal world.

"Boss, I deeply apologize for this. I can guarantee that it won't happen aga-"

"WHAT DID I SAY?" suddenly Jim was screaming, but the volume of his voice appeared to affect him more than Sebastian. The criminal winced slightly after the outburst, then returned to staring at his employee with nothing less than pure hatred, "You came here to either kill me or get money. Don't try to lie. I will text you a number when you walk out of that door. If you give the number to the agent I specify, you will be paid a handsome sum. That is the price of loyalty, Moran. If you decide to reject this offer, I can promise you that money will be exchanged, but you will no longer be taking place in the transaction. Do I make myself clear?"

Shit…he was desperate. Jim Moriarty was actually _desperate_. He needed to _buy_ loyalty. Sebastian could just kill him. He could take the money or the number or whatever and do it. He really, truly could. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. He'd never have to worry about money again. He'd killed countless people before; how was this any different?

The sniper turned back to the man in front of him, and he had his answer.

The difference was that he could hear each and every breath shudder through Moriarty's body. He could see agonizing pain reflected in the criminal's eyes, which were now trained on his Marked (now bloodied) hand. Sebastian could make out every bead of sweat on his forehead, almost smell the fever in the air…

This was personal. Sebastian had killed one person that way before, and he'd promised himself he'd never do it again.

And if he took the money…then what? He'd be rich, but Jim would remember when he was well again who was the employee he'd had to buy loyalty from. He'd have the records. Better to pretend that it was all a fever induced dream.

He met Moriarty's eyes again. They were accusing. Suspicious. A challenge. He was ready to fight Sebastian; the sniper could see it in his every expression.

"Sorry for waking you up, Boss."

Sebastian got up slowly and walked towards the door, listening to it click behind him.

**A/N: I love writing Sebastian this way you guys I'm sorry. Stoic hardened criminals are nice but I like dorky clueless young Seb a lot better. Whoops. If you'd like to see who I cast as him, check my blog's Cosmic Love tag. **


	9. Cepheid

As quietly as he possibly could, John pushed open the door to Sherlock's bedroom.

_This is mad_, John thought, _This is really, truly mad, and Sherlock is suffering because of it._

In the three days since Sherlock had initially received his Mark, they'd done all they could to keep the detective's new dirty secret hidden. The only person outside of 221B who to their knowledge knew about the Bond, outside of Moriarty, was Lestrade. Of course, John thought ignoring the Bond was the dumbest idea he'd ever heard of, but what was the alternative? The doctor hated to admit it, but Sherlock had a point; if he sought out Moriarty and allowed the Bond to form, it could just as likely do damage to him as if he'd gone this route and strained it. At least this way, the detective was himself. This way, he wouldn't have to share in Moriarty's twisted mind.

Rather, that's what John had been _telling_ himself for the past twenty four hours. Sherlock had been in pain during the beginning of the process, but now the doctor was tempted to call an ambulance. For about half an hour after the detective had taken his painkillers, he'd complained only of a mild headache; nothing near to what he'd had initially. However, that was the best things had gotten. Sherlock's headache, if you could even call it such a mild word, had gotten progressively worse to the point that he was now mostly communicating in moans. John also suspected he was running a fever (for God knows what reason) and, on top of everything, hadn't eaten since a few days _before_ he'd gone to meet Jim on the rooftop. The doctor kept catching himself glancing at his cell, then back to the detective, who lie just about dead to the world in his bed. In fact, Sherlock _could_ very possibly die if this continued on like this for much longer, which was why John had decided to fetch him some water from the kitchen, ready for another fruitless attempt to coax liquid past the detective's lips. At least this way, he could feel like he was doing _something._

It hurt John's heart to look at his friend. Sherlock _rarely_ got sick, despite all the shit he put his immune system through, so it was disturbing to see the detective lying so still, pale forehead covered with a sheen of sweat. It was alien; as wrong as if he'd suddenly decided to dye his hair blond…only so, so much worse.

"Sherlock," John shook his friend's shoulder slightly; had he always been this thin? God, it was like he was already dead and decaying…

A terrible idea suddenly struck the doctor in the gut, and he set the glass of water down to shake Sherlock again, more vigorously this time.

"Sherlock?" a note of panic cut through John's voice, which was steadily rising as the detective continued to be unresponsive, "Sherlock! _Shit_, Sherlock, wake up! _Wake up!_ Jesus…_Jesus…_"

John's ears were ringing, his breaths hollow as his hands suddenly steadied, their usual tremor disappearing to be replaced with an eerie calm. The doctor silently prayed as he placed two fingers on the bottom of Sherlock's wrist, begging God or Satan or _someone_ to help him find a pulse there.

He waited, holding his breath.

A quarter, then a half, then a full second passed. It was just as John gave up hope and started to remove his fingers that a slight, _slight_ beat thrummed against his skin.

At first, he didn't believe it. He might be hallucinating. But when the doctor pressed his fingers to Sherlock's wrist once more, he felt it again. The detective was _alive_.

A sigh that shuddered through John's entire body escaped the doctor's lungs, and he stood up so quickly it made him slightly dizzy. Suddenly, it was very clear to him that this couldn't go on for any longer. Sherlock's life wasn't worth risking for anything. The doctor marched over to his phone and called the only contact that could help them.

Mycroft Holmes.

(o0o0o0o0)

Sebastian winced at the buzzing of his phone. 13. That made _13_ texts he'd received within an hour of leaving Moriarty's flat. He didn't even have to look at the screen to know they were all from his mysterious 'benefactor'. The sniper continued to drum his fingers nervously on the arm of the chair he sat in, staring at his phone like it was a puzzle that would have an answer for him if he looked at it long enough. Unfortunately, morality wasn't so easily decipherable.

He'd taken pity on Moriarty now, but where was that going to get him? Sebastian wanted more than anything to avoid the streets for the remainder of his life, and if he jeopardized his career, that wish could go ungranted. Visiting the criminal had likely destroyed any chance he had of being in Moriarty's employ, so if Jim didn't die, he was either dead or broke. Or worse. Sebastian still was terrified of soon becoming one of the stories whispered about what happened to those who crossed Jim Moriarty.

The _smart_ thing to do would have been to kill the bastard, take enough money to live off of, and run. Sebastian _should_ have done that. But _no._ Instead, he'd actually _taken pity on_ the criminal mastermind, and now he might have to pay with his life. Literally or metaphorically. The sniper still couldn't believe his own stupidity. He'd never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but _dammit_ he was better than this! Jim would give him no such pity if he ever recovered. Pity didn't exist in the criminal world. Only winners and losers. And blood. Lots and lots of blood.

So now, Sebastian really only had one way of saving his ass. He had to text back his 'benefactor'. The only issue was whether it was a trap or not. The sniper could very easily fall into the grip of some other boss's employees, who would doubtless torture him for information on Moriarty that they could sell for a quick penny—he'd seen how these things went down, Sebastian just hadn't ever thought it would happen to him.

The sniper forced himself to man up and scroll through his texts, eyes resting on the last one. It was an address.

A bright red flag instantly shot up in Sebastian's mind. If they wanted to meet him in person, this was _definitely _a trap. But then again, what other choice did he have? Wait to be slaughtered by whoever Moriarty sent after him? Still, that didn't mean he had an excuse to proceed without caution. The sniper's fingers flew across his phone's keyboard.

**How do I know this isn't an ambush? **

There was a moment's delay before an answer appeared, making Sebastian's brow furrow.

**You don't. **

"Shit," the sniper cursed under his breath. Well, he'd already behaved like a dumbass in everything he'd done today. Might as well finish off strong. Deciding not to waste any more time, Sebastian stuffed two firearms and a knife into his jacket. He still felt a little bit naked after that, so for good measure, he added another small blade underneath the hem of his jeans. The sniper gave his flat one last glance over before stepping out the door. It actually wasn't half bad of a place. Too bad he would probably never be coming back.

(o0o0o0o0)

Sebastian kept his eyes vigilant as he turned onto a slightly less crowded street. The drive to London was, the sniper had found, much shorter when he was dreading his destination. It had seemed like _ages_ when he'd been in the car with Moriarty. Today, he'd told the cabbie to let him off at an address roughly two blocks from the actual one his 'benefactor' had texted him, for obvious reasons. Though he supposed it was ironic he even bothered to take that measure, since he _was_ making a stupid decision anyway.

"Mycroft, he's dying!"

A stout blond man was shouting into his phone, striding past the sniper as though he was marching off to war, even swinging his free arm as he went. His gait almost looked like that of a soldier.

Sebastian heard a few more snippets of the quickly fading conversation as the distance between him and the talker increased. Among the words he heard were 'brother' 'Bond' and something that sounded like 'Bart's'. The sniper assumed that meant this bloke, whoever he was, was dealing with Soulmate drama. Poor sap, but Moran, to be quite frank, didn't care about a stranger's problems. Much less when they involved domestic shit like Soulmates. He had just started to turn his attention once more to the path in front of him when he heard the one word that could have stopped him in his tracks.

"_Moriarty"_

Turning around, Sebastian was pleased to see that the man hadn't managed to put much distance between them. He was now waiting at a crosswalk, still clearly livid as he ranted into his cell phone. The sniper cautiously started in his direction, deciding that his benefactor could wait a few extra moments. Maybe this would get him some information and help him save his ass.

"I don't see why—_yes_, Mycroft, I did. Yes. No. He's…he said he would try. Whatever the bloody Hell that means...But I still don't understand—and you're _relying_ on this? He's a criminal! What are you doing to do when you've got him? What then?"

Sebastian made sure to keep an unassuming distance behind the man, but still stay close enough that he could hear the conversation. He tuned out all noises of traffic around them, honing in on the blond's words.

"I'm headed there now. No. No, there weren't any. None that could—I wanted to walk."

There was a long pause.

"Just please do it quickly...Yes, I know. We can't trust—this is Moriarty, Mycroft…What do you mean?"

The sniper noted a tinge of panic in the man's voice as he stopped in his tracks, and Sebastian hastily copied the motion, starting to turn around so his face wouldn't be visible.

"Alright. Just bring him quickly," Moran heard the beep of the end call button being pressed, and started walking away from the blond. He felt eyes on his back all the way down the street.

(o0o0o0o0)

Sebastian squinted up at the warehouse in front of him. He could feel someone watching him, but when his eyes searched the numerous, dark holes the place had instead of windows, no movement caught his attention.

The sniper shivered, suddenly aware of how cold it was today. He wished he'd dressed warmer, but scarves and thick coats weren't the best if he would have to fight or run. Being weighed down during a life or death situation was much worse than being a little chilly, in Sebastian's opinion.

Silently closing the distance between himself and the large, rusted doors in front of him, the sniper pushed them open with a creak that seemed to shake the entire building, always keeping one hand ready to whip out a weapon if he needed it.

He stepped inside and blinked a few times, waiting for his eyes to get used to the dim light. The air around him was damp, but still frigid enough to make his every breath visible. Water was dripping somewhere, echoing off the concrete walls, just as Sebastian's footsteps did when he took a few steps forward.

The place was completely abandoned. Shallow puddles of grey water were splashed periodically across the concrete floor, and many of the towering walls around him were cracking and shrouded in shadows.

Sebastian looked up at the ceiling. Light from the cloudy London sky shined down through the numerous gaps in the roof, shaped and distorted by irregular beams and peeling insulation. What looked like a trio of bats was huddled upside down on a particularly rusty looking structure. This was the last thing the sniper's mind processed before everything went dark with a loud clang.

(o0o0o0o0)

"How someone as dreadfully stupid as you fell into place as Moriarty's first in command, I will never understand."

A snide, drawling voice was the first thing Sebastian heard when consciousness started creeping back into his mind. The sniper's head throbbed where he'd been knocked out, and when he tried to lift a hand to check the damage, he found his arms were firmly strapped in place. Perfect.

"Open your eyes, Moran. We haven't all day to waste."

Sebastian groaned quietly and forced his heavy eyelids open. There wasn't much more to see than when he'd had them closed. The sniper was strapped, arms and legs, uncomfortably to a heavy wooden chair, which was screwed into the floor. He was surrounded by mirrors, and a simple table was directly in front of him. The room was about as dark as the warehouse had been, but here, he wasn't so alone. There was just enough light shining down from a single bulb on the ceiling that the sniper could make out the faces of two people in front of him.

The first, a balding, wiry man with a nose and eyes like a hawk's was staring directly at Sebastian with a worrisome mixture of contempt, disgust, and great annoyance. The other was a nondescript figure with a stiff posture that screamed one thing and one thing only: government.

_Shit._

"Mr. Moran, do you know why we've brought you here today?" the first man asked, teeth gleaming in a grin the sniper could only describe as sarcastic.

Sebastian was silent.

"Come now, we don't have all day," the man prompted, smile disappearing, "We've wasted half an hour getting here, and a bit more, thanks to your little eavesdropping session with my good friend John. You wouldn't want to trouble Osric with bringing out his tools" he nodded to a table to the sniper's left that had previously gone unnoticed, "Would you?"

Sebastian remembered following the blond man who'd mentioned Moriarty. He should have known that hearing the criminal's name during was too much of a coincidence to be real. Noting a slight glint of something silver on the furniture in question, the sniper quickly shook his head no. He wanted to try and avoid losing any fingers today, if he could afford it.

"Good. Now answer the question," the man tilted his head to the side, eyes glinting expectantly.

Moran swallowed, summoning his courage, "First, tell me this: where do your loyalties lie?"

The man laughed; a chilly, humorless noise. His dark eyes regarded the sniper with thinly veiled irritation, "Osric," he said without looking at the silent statue beside him, "Why don't we give Mr. Moran a good shave, while I answer him?"

Like a robot, the suited man strode to the table and, to Sebastian's horror, lifted a wicked, curved knife that looked like something straight out of a slasher film. The sniper leaned away as he was approached with it.

"Now, what _is_ loyalty, we must ask ourselves," the man started, seemingly unaware that 'Osric' was now rolling up Sebastian's sleeve, preparing him to be chopped up. The sniper bit his lip, digging his nails into the arm of the chair.

"No, you don't want to do that," he interrupted himself, giving Moran a chastising glance, "It'll only make it hurt more. As I was saying, to define loyalty, one has to-"

"Just _get on with it_!" Sebastian exploded, earning him an infuriatingly smug look from the man. All the sniper could focus on was the metal now gently pressed against the skin of his arm.

"Do you have somewhere to be, Mr. Moran?" the man quirked an eyebrow.

"No, just-" Sebastian huffed in frustration, "Who do you work for? Did Moriarty send you? Did one of his enemies? What do you want with _me_?" The sniper was panting by the end of his rant, feeling just as stupid as he did afraid.

"Oh, Mr. Moran," the man gave a sigh that sounded genuinely tired, "I believe we both know the answer to that last question. I assume you knew what you were signing up for when you entered that warehouse?"

The sniper nodded, "You wanted to know where Moriarty is."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Where is he?"

Sebastian frowned, and beady eyes didn't break contact with his.

"Mr. Moran," the man started impatiently, "My name is Mycroft Holmes. I occupy a minor position in the British government, and my only loyalty is devoted to Great Britain. That being the case, I suggest you answer the question."

_Shit_.

Sebastian had never been caught before, as much as he'd done for the underground. He'd always thought if it happened it would involve a fine for carrying an unregistered firearm. Not being tortured by some government goon _across the Atlantic ocean_.

The sniper eyed the knife on his arm, "What does that do?" he asked shakily.

"It peels off layers of skin, easy as if you were an onion. We go down a few layers until blood just starts to show, then bring out the salt if you don't talk in three, two-"

Sebastian blurted out the address, and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when Osric retreated, putting the knife back on the table and returning to stand beside his boss. Mycroft smiled again, making the sniper want to shiver.

"You've been very helpful, Mr. Moran," he started making his way to the exit, presumably behind Sebastian, who craned his neck to the side as Mycroft passed him.

"So, uh, what happens to me now?"

Mycroft's footsteps paused, "Osric, do me a favor and phone Anthea. Give Mr. Moran a drink and bring him home. We have no further use for him."

Sebastian was sure he hadn't heard right, "Wait, you're _letting me go_?" he asked incredulously.

"Mr. Moran," Mycroft entered his view again, "The British government has more important things to do than imprison rogue ex United States Army snipers. You should know this firsthand, being in the employ of Mr. Moriarty. There isn't much of a reason to imprison you, especially when I entrust we can count on your help in the future. Or is that an incorrect assumption?"

"But…I…" Sebastian sputtered, "I mean, no, that's not incorrect. But I broke the law!"

Mycroft's eyes were black in the dimmed light, "Oh, Mr. Moran," he said softly, "You don't honestly think the government still uses those, do you?"

Sebastian felt a prick in his neck, and everything went black.

**A/N: I know I don't update as much as I should. I'm trying my hardest to get these up quickly, but I'm picky about quality. Sorry there wasn't much of Sherly and Jim in this chapter. Next time, k? Oh, and in case any of you are having trouble picturing a young Moran, since you have Michael Fassbender permanently fancasted or something, I 100% cast Sebastian Stan as Moran in this story. I'm also considering making an 8tracks playlist for this. Is that something you guys would be interested in or no?**


	10. Eclipse

**Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts, mention of bullying, and mention of self harm.**

_Jim studied his surroundings with fathomless eyes. He would recognize the building in front of him anywhere. Despite having lived in countless different cities around Europe, something about the grey walls in front of him, surrounded by a dull blanket of prickly grass, would be burned into his memory forever._

_ The criminal felt sick to his stomach, looking at his old school. His heart rate picked up slightly in apprehension, and he glanced around himself nervously, making sure he was alone. It was embarrassing that he even felt a need to do it; Jim was weak, was what he was._

_ A _victim_, he thought to himself with disgust, shaking his head. No. He _refused_ to be a victim._

_ But what else could he be? That fence wasn't a fence; it was a weapon. That wasn't a pavement; it was pain. Blood. Bruises no one would ask him about. Jim could pick out each and every place he'd been hurt here, as if he'd mentally bookmarked them. Bookmarks, he mused, were easier to remove than what he had. A stain would be a superior metaphor._

_ Slowly, having a glance around periodically to make sure no one came up behind him, the criminal made his way to the heavy doors of the entryway. It seemed only seconds before he stood directly in front of them. Pale fingers closed around the cold metal handle of the door, and swung it open in a single, smooth motion. It was lighter than Jim remembered._

_ Suddenly, the scene changed, and all the breath seemed to be sucked from the criminal's lungs. Reluctantly, Jim breathed in, trying to ignore the way the chlorine seemed to make the air heavier. It made it dirty; poisonous. More than anything, it made the criminal _remember_, and that was something he hated doing._

_ Jim took a few more steps onto the slippery tiled floor, watching the water reflect patterns onto the ceiling and walls. He walked until he reached the exact place it had happened, where he turned to look directly over the water, right at the place Carl Powers had died._

_ The criminal remembered hearing one student talk about how he had choked, flailing helplessly until he finally sunk under, down, down, down, to the bottom of the pool. Jim hoped the chlorine had burned Carl's lungs as it filled them. He hoped Powers had died tasting blood. God knew he'd made Jim feel that more than once._

_ In fact, it made one death for Carl seem a little bit too merciful. _

_ The criminal shivered. This was where he'd almost killed Sherlock the first time. What a shame that would have been. They'd never have gotten to enjoy their little game. Of course, now that was ruined, anyway…_

_ Consciousness tugged at Jim's mind gently, but something anchored the criminal to where he stood. It felt like threads were pulling him deeper into his dream, and it wasn't until Jim looked to his left that he saw what was truly causing the sensation._

_ A boa constrictor had wrapped itself around his left hand, and was fighting to bring the criminal up towards the beam it wrapped the other half of its body around. Its scales gleamed in the dim light, and Jim watched them, transfixed for a moment until his shoes slipped slightly._

_ The criminal swallowed nervously, flexing his hand and trying to pull away from the snake's grip. The thing only gripped him tighter, to the point where he knew it was cutting off circulation. It was now clear that he was no longer being dragged parallel to, but _towards_ the pool itself._

_ Jim was panicking, tugging with all his might, doing all he could to get out of the animal's hold on him. He sunk his nails into its scales, he thrashed and dug his heels into the floor as best he could, but eventually, just when the criminal started to pull with two hands, he was thrown into the icy water._

_ Fangs sunk into Jim's hands and he struggled, sinking deeper and deeper into the mockingly bright water as coils of snake wrapped around his neck, crushing all the air from him and resulting in a quick decision to succumb to death._

_ What was the point in fighting, anyway? Was it not just easier this way? Wasn't as if anyone would miss him. Not that he cared about that. People were useless anyway. Boring._

_ The criminal quietly sank, no longer struggling. He'd be losing consciousness in two or three minutes, but until then, Jim supposed he could appreciate how quiet it was down here. In fact, it was peaceful enough to sleep…_

_ Suddenly, his neck was free, and something was pulling Jim up, the water rushing past him, until he was free of it altogether, breaking the surface and choking violently. It was only after a moment that he saw the face of his rescuer, all cheekbones and icy blue eyes._

_ Holmes._

_ The criminal just stared, mouth agape, breathing heavily. Sherlock stared back, in that infuriatingly stoic way of his._

_ "You…you…" Jim stammered, wishing he'd been left under the water. So much easier…_

_ The detective cocked a prompting eyebrow, and for some bizarre reason, the criminal's stomach fluttered._

_ "…saved me. How thoughtful," Jim attempted to regain a bit of ground, doing a poor job of slipping into his usual erratic persona. _

_ Suddenly, Sherlock's face split into a cruel grin, and the criminal noticed with horror that he had _acne_, igniting his jawline and cheeks with an angry red that drew attention away from his blue eyes…_

_ Actually, they weren't blue anymore. Now they were brown._

_ In fact, Jim was no longer staring at a detective at all, but at his old childhood bully, Carl Powers. The criminal's hand shook and he, in spite of himself, winced in anticipation for what he knew was coming._

_ "Thinking is for _freaks_," Carl sneered, tossing Jim back towards the water. The only difference was, this time he just kept falling._

(o0o0o0o0)

The criminal jolted awake with nothing more than a slight twitch, sending a single, deep, pang of pain through his skull. The first thing Jim noticed when he started to wake wasn't really a _thing_ at all. Rather, it was the absence of one. He'd braced himself for the return of the torture he'd endured before falling asleep, even going so far as to grit his teeth.

The perplexing thing was that nothing came.

Jim waited a few beats of his heart, still not trusting the truth he was being presented with. _How_ could he possibly be feeling better? Not just his head, but his hand…his hand that had been an infected mess the last time he'd been conscious. He'd gone to sleep unable to even _think_ for the pain throbbing through his skull, shivering, feverish, and weak. Not to mention his right hand missing half of its skin. Now even _that_ didn't hurt.

Well. This was…odd. Not that the criminal was complaining. Maybe he was almost dead, and he'd be back asleep in a few seconds…permanently. Was a spontaneous recovery even humanly _possible_ for something this serious?

Jim sighed sleepily, a deep, contented sound. Whatever the case was, he was just grateful for the peace. He'd almost forgotten what that felt like. The criminal sank deeper into the mattress beneath him, coaxing sleep back to the forefront of his mind as he focused on warmth of his body and the soft blankets covering him.

_Wait._

Had…had Jim been underneath blankets when he'd passed out? He'd been running a fever. Was it possible that oaf Sebastian had put them on him? But what would be his motivation for that? He'd tried his hardest to frighten the sniper away. Was it possible that he was _actually_ stupid enough to stick around after that? Had he not heard the stories?

As he pondered this, the criminal's forehead creased slightly in concentration, and he froze.

Something that felt _oddly_ human was pressed against the front of his skull. Now that Jim thought about it, his hair wasn't long enough to be tickling his forehead where it was now.

Had Sebastian…fallen asleep with him? Jim had never been religious, but at that thought, he sent a silent prayer _somewhere_ to keep that idea from ever becoming reality.

But who the _fuck_ could be sleeping with him?

The criminal flexed his previously injured palm and noticed, now more than a little alarmed, that his right was _definitely_ entwined with another hand.

What the _Hell_ was happening?

Every inch of him suddenly wide awake, Jim opened his eyes, and instantly jerked away from the figure next to him so violently that he had to grab the table next to the bed to keep from falling off.

_Sherlock_.

The detective seemed to still be deeply sleeping, breaths drawn out and even. Apparently he was undisturbed by the criminal's sudden movement. Was he drugged? Was _Jim_ drugged?

Jim studied his surroundings, starting to panic. The lights were off, but everything in the small room they were in was white enough that it was easy to see. An uncomfortable looking chair stood guard next to the cheap double bed, while a small, barren table was directly on the criminal's left. The rest of the room seemed to be filled with equipment-

_Hospital_.

Sherlock frowned in his sleep, twitching the hand that had been warmed by Jim's a moment ago, and, horrorstruck, the criminal looked down at his own palm, mouth falling open in disbelief.

His skin was smooth and unblemished, with a perfectly intact, silver Mark curling its way from the center of his hand, all the way to his fingers.

The criminal blinked, not believing his eyes. He'd _cut that out_. He'd seen the blood dripping down the side of the tub. He'd felt nauseous and dizzy and _dammit_, it shouldn't be back. Did someone stitch the wretched thing back onto him when he'd been passed out? Was that something _Sebastian_ would do? Probably not, but what about Jo? Oh, that bitch had better run, because if she was responsible for this, she was going to-

Sherlock stretched, rolling onto his back and causing Jim to lose his train of thought. He looked thin. One would _assume_ that the detective's precious doctor would have made him eat something, but apparently not. The criminal felt a sort of foreign confusion at this, and it wasn't until a minute later, staring at Sherlock and watching his brow crease as he woke up, that Jim realized the implications of this.

Nothing short of terrified, the criminal leaned a little bit closer to the detective, turning his palm over and watching as it gleamed in the dim light.

_Oh, God, no._

Foreheads touching when he'd woken up. Marked hands entwined as well. Alien senses of emotion. Double bed. There was only one kind of hospital room that offered _that_ amenity.

Jim was afraid to even _think_ the word. His heartbeat sped up and his hands shook as he realized the full shame of what had happened to him.

_Bonded_.

Just as he thought the word, Sherlock started awake next to him, fixing a stare on the criminal that could cut diamond. Jim glared back, trying to calm himself down and failing completely. The detective glanced around himself, then down to his hand. What had once been suspicion quickly transformed into abhorrence as Sherlock's mouth fell open, gaze slowly and painfully moving from his Marked hand to Jim.

The criminal said the first thing that came to mind:

"Sleep well?"

Jim hit the floor before he had time to react, all the air pushed from his lungs in a heavy 'oof!' The criminal stared passively up at the man who pinned his arms down on either side, eyes burning with nothing less than pure hatred.

"What are you going to do?" Jim asked, forcing his voice into the soft tone he knew terrified so many, "Kill me? Killing me means killing you, Sherly. Or, now it does. You know how that might upset your little pet."

Sherlock seethed, not breaking eye contact, "Stop."

The criminal suddenly felt very tired, and ended up obeying the command. He wondered if that was just because of the Bond. Jim had expected for Sherlock to say something more, but instead he just shook his head, as if to himself, before getting off of the criminal and stalking over to the lone chair in the room.

Jim watched him for a moment from the floor before getting up, shivering. It was cold, being so far from the detective…

_No_, the criminal scolded himself. He was _not_ gay. And even if he was, he would never harbor such feelings for _Sherlock_. What they had was beyond such ordinary measures as _romance_. Or at least, it _had_ been, before the detective had decided to ruin everything.

"So is this it, then?" Sherlock suddenly snapped, now glaring at Jim from the chair, "This is your new play?"

The criminal decided to play along, even though what he really wanted was to curl up in bed again and go back to sleep.

_Preferably_ _with Sherlock_, a voice whispered from the corner of his mind that Jim worked very quickly to stifle.

"What's the matter?" he murmured darkly, "Is the Virgin scared, now that the game involves sex?"

"This is more than sex," Sherlock growled, "This is a mental Bond that neither of us can ever get rid of."

A delightful idea suddenly occurred to Jim, "Unless…" he prompted, eyes suddenly alight with anticipation.

"Unless," Sherlock sneered, "We die."

"You're smarter than you look," the criminal cooed, leaning against the table, "Surely, it must be a better premise than spending the rest of your life with little old me."

Sherlock shook his head, everything about him silently screaming hate. A deathly quiet befell the room, the two consultants taking in what had just been said. The detective closed his eyes, assuming a thinking pose.

Of course, they had to die now, didn't they? All they had to do was sneak out of their room and up to the roof…assuming they were at Bart's.

_…Have to get to John. Was this his idea? He can be smart, but _why_ did he have to let his emotions get in the way _this time_? Now I don't have a choice. Strangle Moriarty. No. Call Mycroft. Actually, he was probably in on this. Maybe this is his fault, not John's. Mind palace…that might help._

Jim stared at an unassuming Sherlock, mouth agape. He could not possibly be hearing what he thought he was. But sure enough, in a corner of his mind the criminal hadn't known existed before today, he could see the detective starting to navigate a series of hallways, doors stretching as far as the eye could see…

Did Sherlock even notice? Did he have the same access to Jim's thoughts that Jim had to his?

The detective's eyes instantly snapped open, fixated on the criminal.

_Damn._

**A/N: Official playlist for this fic is on 8tracks, under my same username. It has the same title as the fic. Hope you all enjoy this new chapter, and I'll see you next time. Leave me thoughts/hopes/dreams/musings?**


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